Odds & Ends & In-Beweens
by justicemuffins
Summary: A collection of mostly unrelated one-shots, tumblr prompts and general nonsense that shouldn't be allowed to wander off without adult supervision. New: Do you wanna touch? (Jasper/Phil/Steve); Alarm Clock (Phil-centric Steve, Clint & Tony); Unwell (Phil & Clint)
1. Wereshark AU (Capsicoul)

**A/N:** So, what we've got here is a collection of tumblr prompts and one-shots (with the occasional two-shot) of varying lengths. Primary Avengers related, but you'll see some Ultimate Spider-Man and MIB crossed over there as well, with potentially more to come. Every chapter will list the primary pairing or characters interacting, so if you don't care for the pairing you can just skip over it. If you'd like to leave me a prompt, toodle on over to my bio and you'll find a link to my tumblr there. Just drop it in my ask and I'll see what I can do!

* * *

Phil is a fisherman. Phil's brothers are fisherman. Phil's father was a fisherman. Phil's father's father was a fisherman. Phil's father's father's father was a fisherman. Phil's father's father's father's father was a dentist, but no one likes to talk about that.

So Phil is a fisherman.

Living in Gloucester, Massachusetts means that you can't escape the fishing community, nor the ocean which supports it. Not that Phil would ever want to. He's loved the ocean since childhood, has always been fascinated by it and the things which call it their home. Following his father's footsteps only seemed natural. So some might call it something of a busman's holiday when he spends his day off in the middle of the ocean, on a boat beside Nick and a cooler full of beer, fishing.

"Shit, not that again," Nick snorts as he switches the portable radio on. "Don't you ever listen to anything else?"

"They're classics," Phil says defensively, adjusting the volume. Okay, so, they were oldies… but just try not to sing along when 'In the Still of the Night' starts playing. "And don't give me that. You think I don't hear you humming at the helm?"

Nick narrows his lone eye—and really between the eye patch and the bad attitude, it's no wonder the local kids call him The Dread Pirate Fury—before grabbing a beer and settling back in his seat, waiting for a bite on his line. Phil follows in kind, tipping his head back and folding his hands across his middle, happy to be out on the water without any worries about what their haul might be or what Stark's complaints about the state of the boat are and the ridiculous modifications he wants to set in place.

Just the sea, the fish, good beer and a good friend. That's all he wanted on his day off.

He got a little something more.

They'd been at it for a few hours before Phil got a nibble. Well… a _nibble_ would be the understatement of the century. The next two hours were spent attempting to wrangle whatever had hooked itself at the end of Phil's line. Even between him and Nick, the effort was almost too much. By the time they'd reeled their prize close enough to the boat for a gander, they were both beyond exhausted.

"Well fuck me sideways," Nick huffs as they lean over the side after securing the line.

There is a massive Great White thrashing against their boat. Going by the length of it—which is near to twenty feet, by their best guess—Phil has to wonder how the line hadn't snapped. Sure, they'd brought out the heavy duty gear, hoping to reel in a nice swordfish or something similar, but this was something else entirely.

"Gorgeous," Phil exclaims, breathless.

Nick nudges him in the ribs. "The way you're looking at him… you at least planning to buy him dinner first?"

Phil rolls his eyes, but can't keep the smile off his face. Nick had always said he'd have made a better marine biologist than a fisherman, and maybe that's true, but it just wasn't in the cards. Besides, he's right where he wants to be.

"Wasn't there a reward for the shark that ate that Kintner boy a few weeks ago?" Nick asks.

"This isn't the shark," Phil says resolutely.

Nick narrows his eye suspiciously.

"The bite radius is all wrong," Phil says. "A friend at the sheriff's department let me read the report. Just in case we happened to land anything in our nets. This is not our shark, boss."

"Doesn't mean we can't make them _think_ it's our shark," Nick hums.

Phil's expression is bland and unamused as he stares the other man down.

"It was a goddamn joke, Coulson, lighten up," Nick says.

"We're cutting him loose."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Great Whites are listed as 'vulnerable' on the conservation status ranking. Besides which, do you know how _rare_ it is to see one of this size? Nick, there's no way we can take him in and—"

"Alright, alright, we'll cut your little fishy free," Nick interrupts. "Just please spare me the Save the Sharks spiel."

"Deal," Phil says, already ducking to retrieve the necessary tools.

Amidst Nick's complaints that Phil, despite normal appearances, is the craziest man on the whole goddamn boat, Phil leans over the side and gets to work on cutting their shark loose. He wonders if perhaps the shark is ill, or just very old… because it doesn't seem to be struggling any longer. The number of scars along its hide seem to suggest age; perhaps it's worn itself out as much as they have. He cuts the line, unwilling to reach into the shark's gaping maw to pull out the hook, and leans back into the boat. Curiously, the shark remains for a heartbeat before retreating with a flick of its great tail that gets the two men soaking wet.

It was strange, he thinks.

It almost seemed as though that shark were watching him.

* * *

"I'm telling you, it had to be about twenty feet," Phil says.

"Sure, sure," Clint says, rattling the ice cubes in his near-empty glass. "And you'd had how many by then?"

"I wasn't that drunk," Phil protests.

"Just buzzed," Natasha supplies.

"You mean like you are now?" Clint asks with a Cheshire Cat grin.

"No, _now_ I'm drunk," Phil clarifies. "Or getting there. The point is, I know what I saw. Nick saw it, too, he can back me up."

"Considering our venerable captain is even more shitfaced than you're on your way to getting, I wouldn't be surprised if he backed you up on seeing the Loch Ness Monster," Natasha declares, polishing off her drink. She smacks Clint upside the back of his head. "Come play darts with me."

"Ohoho, you picked the wrong game to play, 'Tasha," Clint crows as he nearly falls out of his barstool. "You're going down hard."

"I need to get at least one win in you before I whip your ass at pool," Natasha clarifies, steering him toward the dartboard, "so you don't cry about it all night."

Phil shakes his head at the two as they leave him alone at the bar. Poor Maria is suffering through Nick's no-doubt exaggerated tale of their adventure at sea earlier that day, but at least the scotch in her hand seems to be helping. The little dive is something of a local attraction, a gathering place for fisherman after a long day or week at work, so it's surprising to say the least when a stranger slides into the seat beside him.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing," the stranger—a handsome, well-built blonde with dazzling blue eyes—says. "You said you hooked a twenty-footer?"

Phil takes in the man sitting beside him. Plaid shirt, khaki pants, and a bright, eager expression. The only thing that seems off is the rather painful looking cut at his top lip. Phil weighs his options, but feels the scales tip significantly to one side when he catches the shark tooth necklace dangling from the necklace.

"Tourist, huh?" he deduces.

The man smiles, a flash of too-white teeth, seemingly unbothered by Phil's stiff reception. "You could say that. I just got into town, but I'm hoping to settle down here, to be honest. I've moved around a lot over the years and this seems like it might be the right place to hang my hat."

The man clears his throat, looking somewhat bashful at having said as much as he had.

"But, uh, if you'd prefer I leave, then I could do that," he says.

Phil doesn't know what keeps him from saying that's exactly what he'd like, that he doesn't feel like wasting his night talking about the sea to some yuppie city boy who's just looking for a bit of fun before he goes back wherever he came from. Perhaps it's because Tony had been a yuppie city boy once and he'd turned out alright in the end—mostly. Or perhaps it's because there's something in the stranger's eyes that does seem genuinely, intensely curious. So Phil gives in. He holds a hand out.

"Phil Coulson," he introduces himself.

The stranger smiles, gripping his hand in a firm handshake. "Steve Rogers."

"So, Steve," Phil says, pointing at his necklace. "I see you like sharks."

Steve looks down, touches the tooth briefly before looking up. "They're amazing creatures. Honestly, they're so fascinating to watch that sometimes it feels like they just draw themselves."

"You're an artist?" Phil questions.

"I don't know about calling myself an artist, but I do sketch quite a bit," Steve admits.

"Have any of those sketches on you, by any chance?"

The hour grows later and later as they pour over Steve's sketchbook, discussing sharks and sea life, drinking all the while. Somehow, as the bar closes and they're the last to leave, they both end up at Phil's house; a modest little dwelling overlooking the sea. This isn't how Phil had pictured the night would go, but as Steve presses him against the door of his bedroom and clumsily thrusts his tongue between the fisherman's lips, Phil decides that's quite alright with him.

It's been a long time since he'd had anyone in his bed. Far too long. In fact, he's sure the last time he's ever had a drunken hook-up was… well, probably back when he was the age that Steve is now. But that hardly matters once he's on his stomach with Steve draped over him and thrusting eagerly inside him. It surprises him when Steve latches onto his shoulder, biting down hard as he climaxes, and the combined sensations are enough to send Phil toppling over the edge along with him.

It's only after, when they lie in a sweaty, panting heap, that Steve touches the bite mark. He'd drawn blood and that seems to worry him.

"Sorry. I don't know what I…"

"It's alright. I liked it," Phil assures him sleepily.

Steve blushes as he grins, shifting where he lies. The younger man's body is, curiously, covered in scars. Phil wonders where he'd gotten all of them. But then, Phil's got more than his fair share of scars, some which he doesn't feel like being asked about, so he pays the other man the same courtesy.

But something seems to have Steve feeling uneasy. He looks… flighty, almost. As though he'd like to stay, but isn't sure of his welcome. Phil closes his eyes and reaches out to pat the man's arm before he rolls over.

"It's alright. I've got eggs for the morning," Phil assures him.

He hears a soft huff of laughter before the man's warm weight is pressed against him, his arm wrapped securely around Phil's waist, and he drifts off into a pleasant slumber.

* * *

It's still early morning when Phil wakes, the sun kissing the horizon and painting the sky a fiery orange. He tries not to feel disappointed when he finds the bed is empty. Likely the alcohol had worn off and the young man had remembered himself and beat a hasty retreat. Oh well.

Phil showers and changes, putting on a pot of coffee and making himself some breakfast. He's still got another few days off while some of their equipment is in for repairs, so he plans to enjoy them. It's a short walk from his house to the beach, and he finds himself soothed by the sea breeze as his feet sink into the sand with each step he takes.

He reviews last night. It had been… nice. It hadn't felt like the hookup that it was. There had been something about it which had seemed more intimate, more caring and tender. Phil considers himself a good judge of character, but everyone has to be wrong now and again. Still, he's having a hard time shaking the feeling that last night had meant something to both of them. Running a hand over his shoulder, where the bite mark is still tender beneath his shirt, he shakes his head and walks further down the beach.

He glances out across the waves as he walks, but stops in his tracks when something catches his eye. A fin. A shark. He raises his eyebrows when he notices how close to shore the creature is and walks forward until the water is up to his ankles. From here he can get a better look. The shark is enormous, a Great White, covered in scars and…

_His_ shark.

The one he'd hooked yesterday.

But what's it doing here? And so close to shore? Maybe he was right yesterday. Maybe it _is_ dying. He knows that sea creatures have been known to beach themselves when the end is near. Perhaps what the shark is seeking to do. What he's not prepared for is for the shark to suddenly come racing towards him.

He stumbles backwards when it's clear the shark isn't stopping. Surely it doesn't want to make a meal of him? He doesn't look anything even remotely like a seal. But he's surprised once again. As the shark reaches the beach, it breaches the water and where the shark had been there is now a soaking wet Steve Rogers, in the sand on his hands and knees and staring up at Phil.

Phil's not certain he's truly awake at the moment, especially when Steve rubs the back of his neck and asks, "Still have those eggs?"

* * *

Phil makes Steve enter and exit the surf several times before they return to his house. The blonde man watches him with concern as he silently prepares breakfast, not sure what to make of his silence. Granted, it's a lot to take in, so perhaps space and silence for the time being work best.

Eventually, Phil places a cup of coffee and a full plate of eggs, bacon and toast in front of him and slides into his own seat. The fisherman props his elbows on the table and rests his forehead against his clasped hands.

"Are you alright?" Steve asks.

"To be honest, I'm not quite certain that I am," Phil admits. "I just watched a man walk into the ocean and turn into a shark."

"Yes, you did," Steve agrees. He pokes his fork at the eggs on his plate. "Would it help if I explained it?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Phil says.

He leans back in his seat and wraps his hands around his steaming coffee mug. It's too early to make it a proper Irish Coffee, but he's strongly considering ignoring that particular societal construct, at least for the time being.

"I was in the Army," Steve tells him. "In World War II."

Phil stares at him, unmoving.

"That… will make sense soon, I promise," Steve says, in response to the fisherman's obvious disbelief, considering his youthful appearance. "My plane was shot down, into the ocean. I was stuck in my seat, couldn't get myself out as we sank. Have you ever thought you were drowning? Because I was drowning. It was terrifying. I'd heard stories that drowning was like… like going to sleep. But it wasn't. It was cold and painful and the loneliest, most hopeless experience of my life."

Steve pushes the eggs around his plate with his fork, seemingly lost in thought. Phil would like very much to call him on his bullshit, and likely would but for the simple fact that there's no bullshit that he can detect. And there's something very frightening about that.

"Just as I thought it was over, as I sucked in the first lungful of water, it happened. The Sea spoke to me. I know that sounds crazy, but sure as I'm sitting here talking to you, it spoke to me," Steve says. "It asked if I wanted to live. And of course, I said yes. It asked what I would be willing to do in order to live. So I said I would do anything it wanted, just so long as it could make this stop. And it did. Just… not in the way that I would have expected. The Sea transformed me into a shark in order to grant me life. The price is that I must wander the earth forever with this curse; at least once a month, before the moon is full, I have to take to the sea, or else forfeit my life."

He reaches for the tooth hanging around his neck and holds it up against the light.

"This is a symbol of my contract. It's what allows me to keep human form when I'm out of the sea," Steve says. "But any time I submerge in ocean water… I transform."

H sits back and waits for questions. He has no doubt the other man will have quite a few. Phil studies him thoughtfully, digesting the information he's just been given.

"I caught you," Phil declares.

Steve smiles. "Yes, you did. You also let me go."

"Is that where…?" Phil murmurs, gesturing to the cut on his upper lip.

"Your hook? Yes. It came out easily enough," Steve says, his fingers brushing the healing wound.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

They lapse into a temporary silence.

"So, a shark, then?"

"Yeah. You haven't run off screaming yet."

"Is that what happened to the last guy you told?"

"Actually… no. You're the first. That I've told, I mean."

"Oh. Why me?"

"Well…"

Steve rubs the back of his neck, looking bashful again. "To be honest… I'm not sure. Something drew me to you after your cut me loose. I just knew I needed to see you again. Some part of me felt like, maybe, there was a chance you'd understand. Was I wrong?"

Phil considers the question. "No. But it might take some time yet before I'm convinced I'm still sane."

"That's understandable," Steve says.

"So what are your plans?" Phil wants to know as he sips his coffee.

"I'm not sure," Steve admits. "But I meant what I said last night, about wanting to settle down here. It's been a long time since I've really… lived with people. I've wandered, stopped temporarily in seaside towns and villages across the world for short periods of time, but I've never really _lived_ anywhere besides the sea ever since my plane went down. I'm not even sure I can at this point."

He huffs a quick laugh.

"Besides, based on how I remember America… I think I might just be a little too old fashioned."

"Old fashioned isn't a bad thing," Phil remarks. "Sometimes I think we all might need a little old fashioned."

"Think so?" Steve asks, at last meeting his gaze, uncertainty flooding his eyes.

"I think you won't know unless you try," Phil answers. He taps the side of his mug. "You can stay here. If you'd like. It's small, but it's right by the water and—"

"If you'll have me, I'd be glad to stay," Steve says quickly. "You're sure you wouldn't mind?"

"I wouldn't mind an opportunity to get to know you," Phil says.

"I think I'd like that opportunity, too," Steve answers.

Phil's not entirely sure of what he's gotten himself into, but there's no turning back now.

* * *

"So this is the mysterious boyfriend you've been hiding from us!" Tony crows as Phil and Steve walk into the bar.

"Hiding from _you_, Tony," Pepper corrects him. She looks up at them both with a smile. "Hi, Phil. Hi, Steve."

"Hi, guys," Steve greets animatedly.

The pair of them settle in at the table. Six months had been a long time. Steve had been introduced first as Phil's new roommate and had been promptly incorporated into the group. If Phil thought he was an okay guy, then apparently that was good enough for the rest of them. It was only tonight that they had agreed to let everyone in on the fact that they were in a relationship—not that everyone hadn't figured as much, anyway. Really, it was something they had only decided on themselves a few short weeks ago.

"So, you and Steve, huh?" Clint leans in and asks.

"Yes. Me and Steve," Phil echoes, fighting back a smile.

"Good for you. He's quite the catch," Clint says.

At that, Phil can't hide his smile any longer. "Barton, you have no idea."


	2. Drink Prompt (Capsicoul)

"You know I can't get drunk, right?" Steve says, peering at the bottom of his fifth glass of beer.

"Mmhmm," Phil hums, still sipping his.

"But you can, right?" Steve queries, looking up.

"Mmhmm," Phil hums again.

Steve eyes him critically. The agent's cheeks are a healthy pink color and his posture is less rigid than it had been previously. The conversation flows a bit smoother than usual, perhaps because neither of them are on duty at the moment, but…

"You're not drunk now, are you?" he asks.

And Phil laughs. A short, quick bark of a laugh that causes Steve's stomach to flutter pleasantly and his cheeks to turn pink to match.

"No, no, I'm not even close," Phil says. "I'm buzzed, but it'll take a lot more than this to get me drunk. I've been building up a tolerance to alcohol and certain sedatives over the course of the past twenty years or so."

"Building up a tolerance?" Steve prods, sipping the foam off the top of his sixth.

"I had a bad experience with someone slipping something into my drink on an information gathering mission as a Junior Agent," Phil explains. "I was young and I'd had a few by that point… we'll just say I was very glad for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s policy for assigning no less than two agents to a mission."

Steve's not sure what to say. The information has been presented him in a casual, offhanded manner, but he can't shake the feeling that he's treading toward dark water with this subject. And yet his curiosity pushes him forward.

"Were you alright?" he asks.

Phil turns to look at him, his eyebrows raised. A look of understanding appears on his face and he waves a dismissive hand.

"Oh. Yes, I was fine," he answers. "My pride was the only thing that took a beating."

"Well, you were only a Junior Agent, you said," Steve reminds him, nudging the agent's knee with his own. "So you've been building up a tolerance for things since then?"

Phil nods. He smiles and, of all things, winks at Steve. "Not as fun as it sounds. Believe me."

Steve grins at the wink, feeling a chuckle work its way up from his chest and out his lips. "Well, if it means that I can have a few drinks with you and still have you lucid enough for conversation, then I'll drink to that."

With the small smile he gets in response as their glasses clink together, Steve is certain that asking the other man out for a drink is one of the best ideas he's had in months. And if their knees are still touching as they pay the tab, well, that's just a bonus.


	3. Tactical (Capsicoul)

Steve has never seen Phil attempt to strip as quickly as he does now, and that's saying something. He holds up his hands peaceably, trying to halt the man's progress.

"Whoa, whoa there, where's the fire, Phil?" he asks.

"The mission's over, I'd like to change," Phil answers.

"Well, sure, but you'd think someone had put itching powder in that thing with how fast you're trying to get out of it," Steve notes.

Steve has grown to love Phil's suits, has found an eye for which tie he's wearing and what shade of shirt to match. He's fond of blues on the agent, he's discovered. But today, Phil isn't in a suit. Or to be more precise, Phil isn't in one of his _usual_ suits. For today's mission, Phil had been forced to wear a tactical suit, something Steve had never seen him in. In fact, Steve hadn't even known that Phil _had_ a tactical suit.

At present, the agent has only unzipped it, his regular clothes ready and waiting in a neat pile on the bench beside them. Steve is only glad he managed to stop him before he'd gotten any further.

"I don't particularly care for this suit," Phil admits.

"Why not?" Steve asks, moving closer. He's still in full uniform himself, sans the cowl.

"It feels strange. I'm used to my shirts and ties," Phil says. He rubs the back of his neck. "Plus I've always felt I look a bit… odd wearing one of these."

"'Odd' is not the word I would choose," Steve says, leaning up against the lockers beside him.

Phil gives him an appraising look, like he can't quite tell if he's being jerked around.

"I like it. The tactical uniform," Steve says. He reaches out to tug on the collar as he speaks before tracing the path of the open zipper with his fingers all the way down to Phil's navel. "Specifically, I like you in it."

Phil laughs as that, shaking his head in disbelief. "And since when do you have a thing for uniforms?"

"Since now, apparently," Steve answers. He grins. "Really, Phil, I'm being serious here. You look very handsome wearing this."

Phil is not easily flustered, especially since a great deal of the shine has worn off Steve since they'd first met, which is why the soldier can't help but laugh at his reaction. The agent looks away, his cheeks a healthy pink, and says nothing.

"What, you don't believe me?" Steve asks.

"Not that, just—"

"Alright, alright, break it up in here," Tony says, walking through the locker room, a towel slung low across his hips. "Just because you look cute in your new uniform, doesn't mean anyone wants to watch you and your Star Spangled Boyfriend get all hot and bothered."

"I'll watch," Clint declares, following just behind him.

"Yeah, you would," Tony snorts, rolling his eyes.

"You want to know why Steve likes your tactical uniform?" Clint asks with a Cheshire Cat grin. "It's because it makes your ass look great."

"Like two Christmas hams kissing," Tony agrees. He looks to Phil. "I mean, seriously… who would have guessed you were hiding all _that_—"

Phil glares as Tony gestures to him from head to toe.

"—under those suits of yours," Tony finishes. "Good job, Cap. A+ catch with this one."

Phil zips the suit back up and gathers his clothes from the bench, a look of calm control on his face as he addresses them. "Since you all feel like behaving like children, I'm getting changed in my office. Barton, stay out of my vents or I'll suspend you for a week."

"I hate to see you leave," Clint calls as Phil beats a hasty retreat, "but I sure do like watching you walk away!"

They hear the door slam before Steve turns his angry gaze on his two teammates. He's not sure when 'Cockblock Captain America' became a game with these two, but he doesn't care for it. Especially not when it means he'll likely never see Phil in that tactical suit again thanks to this conversation. Or so he thinks until he checks his cell.

_››I'll bring the tac suit back to the apartment tonight._

He grins to himself as he tucks the phone away. Well, maybe being interrupted wasn't such a bad thing after all.


	4. Pep Talk (Phil & Jasper)

"You're scaring the kids, honey."

Phil scowls at the teasing voice as he gently lowers himself into his chair. Jasper's smug smile greets him from across the desk and he has the insane urge to reach over and smack it right off his face.

"Good. They should be scared," Phil grumbles instead.

Jasper arches an eyebrow. "Really? I thought you always said it wasn't your style to terrorize the newbies."

"A lot's changed since the Battle of New York and they have to be ready for it. Things are different now."

"_Things_ are different, or _you're_ different?"

Phil's eyes flicker to the cane resting against his desk and linger there. It's one of the few times he's felt unwilling to look someone in the eye. He's always been one for eye contact; to let someone know just who they're dealing with, no surprises, and more importantly, as a tool to gauge whomever he's speaking to. Now, though, he finds himself stubbornly refusing. He knows what he'll see in the younger agent's eyes and since he doesn't want to see it, he doesn't look.

There's no denying he _is_ different. He knows that. He's changed, and not entirely for the better. It's a shock to discover that he's not as unshakeable as he used to be, that something as simple as standing in an open doorway with his back unguarded is enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. He's dodged Stark's continued attempts to get him to move into that ridiculous tower partly because the level of unprofessionalism involved with rooming with the Avengers is for the record books, but mostly because he's sure he doesn't want to deal with the repercussions of waking them all up with his screaming in the middle of the night.

Perhaps he should feel guilty that he's haunting the halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ like an unfriendly ghost these days. But given the way people scatter in his presence or part like the red sea and whisper as he passes, he's not often in the mood to be charitable.

"Fury has me playing desk jockey for the next five months," Phil huffs by way of an explanation.

"As well he should," Jasper answers.

Phil looks at him then. But there's none of the pity he'd been expecting. Instead, the younger man just watches him patiently, his eyes betraying only the slightest gleam of worry. Jasper leans forward in his seat.

"Look, Phil, most people don't have the pleasure of being assigned desk duty after being run through like you were," Jasper says. "You know what they get the pleasure of? A dirt nap."

"A dirt nap would be preferable to more PT."

"Funny, jackass."

"'Jackass' huh? What happened to 'honey'?"

Jasper sniffs dramatically, fanning at his eyes. "You tell me! You're not the man I married!"

Phil resists the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to Jasper to try to tickle your ribs when you're not expecting it. The younger agent clears his throat and smooths down his tie, shifting in his seat. Any hint of playfulness is gone, now.

"But in all seriousness, I'm glad you're back. Believe me, it's not the same without you. That being said, you have absolutely no right to push yourself. The world hasn't fallen apart in your absence and even though the Avengers are a royal pain in the ass that I will be only too glad to pawn off on you the first chance I get, I can handle them. Yeah, I know you hate being confined to light duty, but we can't have you running off and getting yourself killed again. So take your time, heal up and get back to being that guy who takes out armed gunmen with sacks of flour," Jasper says. He pauses, as though to see how Phil's taking it, before leaning back in his seat once again, smile firmly in place. "In other words: suck it up, sweetheart."

Phil clucks his tongue at that and eyes the scant paperwork on his otherwise bare desk. As much as he hates to admit it, Jasper's right. He wants to be ready to get back to work, to his usual duties, but he knows he's nowhere near fighting fit. It's just not something he wanted to admit to himself. It's going to take a lot of work to get back to where he was, but he's never been one to back down from a challenge.

"Sucking it up," he sighs.

"That's the spirit. Now, if you're gonna be stuck riding this desk for five months like you said, then just pretend it's Captain America's cock and you ride it for all you're worth," Jasper exclaims loudly, slapping a hand onto polished oak for emphasis.

Phil buries his face in his hand.

"I'm embarrassed to know you," he says.

"Shut up, I can see you smiling."

"That's called a grimace."

"You're smiling."

"I'm not smiling."

As he continues to try to convince Jasper that his joke was entirely inappropriate and unwarranted—he's having a harder time than he would have thought—he's certain of two things: 1) Even people like him can use a pep talk now and again, and 2) It's going to be a very long five months.


	5. Collarbone Kiss (Capsicoul)

"Stop—"

A chuckle.

"Steve—"

Squirming, shoving, laughing.

"I'm trying to look over this file—"

Steve grips his partner's hips, nosing at the neck of his t-shirt with a smile and earning a surprised laugh in response. He knows Phil has work to do before they sleep, knows that the man does not put play before work, but the mood had struck him and given the lateness of the hour he figures that Phil could stand to give himself a five minute break.

"And you can finish when I'm done," Steve murmurs, tugging the collar of the agent's t-shirt down.

"Don't stretch the collar, I like this shirt," Phil complains.

"Mm. I won't," Steve answers, lips meeting bare skin.

He kisses along the length of the shorter man's collar bone, listening to Phil continue to discuss his plans for the meeting tomorrow even as his fingers find their way to Steve's hair. Phil's sentence is cut off with a surprised yelp as Steve bites, sucking until he bruises the skin. The soldier pulls back to admire his handiwork. He grins from ear to ear as Phil pulls his collar aside to try to see it for himself before looking up at Steve with a vaguely amused expression and a raised eyebrow.

"Another one?" he asks. He clucks his tongue.

"I'm following the rules," Steve says. "Nothing above collar level on your work shirts."

Phil sighs through his nose. Well… at least he had followed the rule. He'd noticed early on that Steve had a certain fondness for marking him and Phil certainly wasn't about to stop him. Still, it doesn't explain just _why_ Steve does it so often.

"The last one already faded away," Steve says, apparently finding the question written on his face. "So I thought it might be a good time for you to take a break from that paperwork."

He reaches out and taps the rim of Phil's glasses.

"You'll strain your eyes."

Phil snorts at that.

"I think they're long past the point of being saved from strain. May as well go down with the ship," he says. He eyes the mark again. "You know, you're the reason I have to change in my office whenever I use the gym."

Steve knows that very well. He knows because he's often waiting in Phil's office whenever the agent returns from said gym. He dips down pressing one more gentle kiss to the agent's collarbone.

"Fine by me."


	6. Upside-Down Kiss (Phepperony)

"What do you think, should we help him?"

"I don't know, I kind of like him like this."

"I suppose a little longer wouldn't hurt. JARVIS, you're getting this, right?"

_"Of course, Ms. Potts."_

"Excellent."

Tony watches Pepper and Phil silently, stewing in his agitation. Of course they would think this is funny. Of course they would come running to the lab after hearing all that crashing, find him strung upside down by a few cables and think it's _funny_. He narrows his eyes.

"I hate all of you," he declares.

"Of course you do," Pepper says sympathetically.

"No really, though. Haha, we've all had a good laugh, joke's on Tony," Tony says quickly. "But could we seriously get me down, please? The blood's rushing to my head. I'm seeing spots. I'm growing faint."

He watches his two partners share a look—and he _hates_ how they have those silent eye conversations—before Pepper eventually shrugs and the two walk over to him. Pepper stops in front of him with her arms folded across her chest, her eyes following Phil with a glimmer of amusement. The agent circles Tony, running his fingers lightly enough across the genius's midsection to make him shiver. Okay, so maybe being strung up like a Christmas goose has its upsides.

"Are we going to deface my lab?" he asks hopefully. "Because I'm all for defacing my lab."

"I don't know," Pepper says with an exaggerated sigh, tapping a finger against her entirely too kissable lips. "What do you think, Phil, does he deserve it?"

Phil finishes his round and comes to stand by Pepper with his hands in his pockets. He cocks his head and purses his lips, giving Tony an appraising look.

"Nah," he says.

"Oh my god, you cockblocking son of a _bitch_," Tony hisses. "When I get down, the three of us are having a serious talk about leading me on because between the two of you I'm going to die of blueballs."

"Relax, Tony," Pepper says. "Phil's just kidding."

"…so we _are_ having sex in the lab?" Tony asks, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

By way of an answer, Tony gets a kiss from both of them; from Pepper on his right cheek and from Phil on his left. The agent shifts just enough so that his lips are by Tony's ear.

"Why do you think Pepper asked to make sure JARVIS was recording?"

Yes, there are some definite upsides to being upside down.


	7. Kiss With a Fist (Capsicoul)

"I want you to punch me in the face."

Phil pauses with a forkful of salad halfway between his mouth and his plate. Steve is staring him down from across the table with the strangest look of determination. The agent closes his mouth and lowers his fork slowly.

"What?"

"I said, I want you to punch me in the face," Steve repeats.

"Why on earth would I do that?" Phil wants to know.

"So we're even," Steve answers.

Phil makes a vaguely annoyed noise before viciously stabbing his fork into the bowl of leafy greens before him, drawing the concerned gaze of a few other agents. Alright, so he's using a little more force than strictly necessary… so what? Don't they have better things to be doing than watching him murder a salad?

"Steve, just eat your sandwich please," he says.

"Phil, I punched you," Steve says insistently, continuing to ignore his sandwich. "I broke your nose, for Christ's sake."

"You punched me because my mind was being controlled and I had a gun aimed at Pepper," Phil reminds him. "It's called collateral damage."

"I don't care what it's called, I hit you, I hurt you and I'm not budging on this until you agree to—"

If there were agents who weren't staring before, they are now. Phil cuts off Steve's sentence with a hard jab, delivered with enough force to snap his head back and nearly startle him out of his seat. Steve presses a hand to his nose, his blue eyes wide with surprise as he settles back into his chair.

"That actually _hurt_," Steve says, sounding perplexed by the notion. "Wait, am I bleeding?"

"Let me see," Phil says, shooing the captain's hand away. He hums lightly. "A little bit."

He hands his partner a few napkins. Steve wads them up and presses them beneath his nose. They sit in silence for several minutes as Steve watches Phil and Phil pays more attention to his salad than anything else. Steve notes there is about a fifty foot radius between their table and the nearest agent. The majority of the agents in the place look a little spooked.

"Eat your sandwich," Phil says.

"You know," Steve says slowly, "when I asked you to punch me in the face, I didn't really mean here."

"You didn't specify," Phil answers.

"I think we scared our co-workers," Steve says, nodding towards the groups making a tight fit of the tables furthest away from theirs.

Phil looks up. Some of them notably flinch and Steve sees at least one junior agent drop their tray and run to the nearest exit. Phil shrugs, seemingly unconcerned.

"They can do with a good scaring now and then," he says. "It keeps them on their toes."

Looking at the huddled masses, Steve's not as convinced as Phil is. He looks down when he feels a hand patting his and finds that Phil is doing so while sipping at his coffee.

"Love you," the agent murmurs over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Love you, too," Steve answers. "But I don't think I'll be asking for another punch any time soon."

"Good, because I think I may have fractured my hand."

Steve fights back the urge to sigh. Well, back to medical it is.


	8. Nightmares (Phepperony)

Nightmares are no stranger to their bed. And although they're something they all share, Pepper knows that for each of them it's something very different.

Tony's are the most violent, the most frightening, and the most frequent—to her knowledge. Some are old horrors, some are new, but it's all the same for him once he's dreaming them. They'd gotten worse after the battle of New York, but then, that's true for all of the, isn't it? But she didn't realize how _much_ worse they'd gotten until after they'd managed to get Phil into their bed and their twosome had become a threesome. On the bad nights, Tony will kick and punch, speaking to something neither of them can see. It takes time to sooth him, but they can usually spare waking him, needing quiet murmurs of reassurance and well-placed touches to scare away the shadows.

On the very bad nights, Tony thrashes and lashes out, yells as he fights unseen entities. Gentle reassurances will do no good here. Phil will restrain him, putting him in a hold that cradles him and keeps him from hurting himself or them, as Pepper talks him down until he wakes, startled and bewildered by their positions. He won't beg them to stay, not out loud, but neither of them would dream of leaving. He'll repeat his apologies, over and over and over, as Phil runs his fingers through the genius's sweat-damp hair and Pepper rubs his back soothingly until he falls asleep. One of them will always remain awake to watch him until the sun rises, keeping the specters of his mind at bay as best they can.

Phil is very different from Tony, in that regard. As with many things in his life, the agent is secretive about his nightmares. They always know he's had one when they find him missing from the bed earlier than he should be without a note to say where he's gone. They know his routine and when he deviates from it, then not all is right with the world. The few times either of them have caught him having a nightmare are by luck. He's completely silent, his body as stiff and straight as a board, his muscles drawn so taught that he shakes. There are times he has woken on his own and times when they've woken him, pale and panting stuck in the fight of his fight or flight instinct. His responses are always terse and clipped, he absolutely will not allow either of them to touch him, and he chooses to leave the room altogether instead. Tony wonders in the beginning if there's something they could be doing to keep him from running from their bed to seclude himself elsewhere.

They learn to read him, over time; Tony gives Pepper a heads up when a mission has gone particularly bad. Cold aggravates his old wound—even if he won't admit it—so on winter days when Pepper catches him grimacing and touching a hand to his chest when he things no one's looking, she knows to prepare for a particularly rough night. The best they can do is just wait him out, until he's had too many sleepless nights, until he's too tired to push them away, until they press him between them and hold tight until his body suddenly grows limp, like he's breaking, and he gives in. Until he breaths shaky breaths against Pepper's collarbone as Tony spends as much time as he can reminding Phil that he's an idiot for keeping things to himself. Somehow that seems to be what helps, because he always looks more like himself the next morning, like he'd misplaced part of himself and had only needed them to help him find it.

Pepper doesn't have nightmares when they're with her. She can't possibly have them when she's lying between them, Tony pressed up against her back with a hand on her hip as she lies with her head pillowed on Phil's shoulder. It's only when their bed is empty, when she's alone, that she has them. When there is no one there to comfort her, when Phil and Tony are out saving the world and there's no way for her to know if they're alright, nightmares come for her. Maybe Tony never made it back from Afghanistan. Maybe Phil never made it back from Puente Antiguo. Maybe Tony didn't make it through that hole in the sky. Maybe Phil never survived his confrontation with Loki. Who knows, maybe those things are real. Freshly woken, she has no way of knowing with neither of them there to tell her otherwise.

But logic wins out, she reminds herself that they've made it through all of those things, and as she dries her tears on her nightshirt and declines JARVIS's gentle offer to phone one or both men, she tells herself they'll make it through this, too. Pepper pulls herself together, because no one's going to do it for her and she's not about to let herself fall apart. They must know she doesn't sleep well when they're away. Or maybe they don't. But either way, neither of them will protest when she throws her arms around their necks and pulls them in close when they return, even from routine missions. More often than not they smell like blood and sweat and dirt, but it's all proof of life to her. Her boys are home and even if they've brought fresh nightmares with them, she's sure they'll make it through.

They always do.


	9. It's a Piece of Cake (Capsicoul)

Steve can't get back to sleep. By all rights, he should be able to, considering he's exhausted, but sleep is apparently finished with him for the night. So shuffles from his room to the lift and leans against the railing, rubbing at his dry, tired eyes as it descends to the communal floor. It's a surprise to see the lights in the kitchen are on, but he supposes that it's not out of the question that someone else is having a hard time sleeping. He expects to find Bruce preparing a cup of tea, or perhaps Clint making some hot cocoa. What he does _not_ expect is Phil in a t-shirt and sweatpants, stirring the contents of a large mixing bowl.

For a moment, Steve stands in the doorway and watches, feeling a bit conflicted. On one hand, he has something he needs to speak to Phil about that he's been avoiding, and he isn't exactly keen on discussing it now. On the other hand, an opportunity to spend time with the agent alone isn't something he wants to pass up on.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Making a cake," Phil answers, seemingly unsurprised by his presence.

Steve squints up at the clock.

"Phil," he says slowly. "It's quarter past two in the morning."

"Yes, I'm aware," Phil says. He lifts his gaze from the bowl to watch Steve as he continues stirring. "Having trouble sleeping?"

"You could say that again," Steve sighs, pulling out a chair and sitting at the counter. He takes in the various supplies spread out along the counter before shifting his gaze to Phil as the agent pours the pink mixture into a cake pan. "_Why_ are you making a cake?"

Phil takes some time to consider the question and doesn't answer until he's settles the pan inside the oven. He turns to face Steve once again, leaning against the counter.

"It's Agent Barton's birthday," he answers.

"Why didn't anyone say anything sooner?" Steve wonders, sitting up just a tad straighter. "If it's today, that's not much time to prepare a party for—"

"He doesn't want one."

"I'm sorry?"

"He prefers not to celebrate it. It makes him uncomfortable, I think, having everyone's attention focused on him," Phil explains. "If you really want to do something, just get him a card and hand it to him without saying why. He'll appreciate it more that way. Would you like to lick the spoon?"

"Okay. Wait, what?" Steve says, trying to shake the cobwebs out of his head.

"I asked if you'd like to lick the spoon," Phil repeats, smiling patiently so that his eyes crinkle fondly behind those thick rimmed glasses of his that Steve likes far more than he should.

"Oh," Steve says. He runs a hand through his hair. "You know, I don't think I've done that since I was a kid."

"I'm of the firm opinion," Phil says, as he holds a spoon out to Steve, "that it's not a practice which should be abandoned just because we grow up."

Steve can't help the grin that tugs at his lips as he accepts the spoon being held out to him. Phil leaves him there, walking to the sink to rinse out the mixing bowl. The batter is strawberry flavored, Steve discovered, and really quite good. Phil had mentioned once that he'd taken cooking classes, but to his knowledge, Steve's never actually seen the agent cook.

His mind comes back to the topic he's been avoiding. Phil had mentioned Clint and, oddly enough, Clint had been the one to make him aware of the situation. Apparently the archer had been concerned on his handler's behalf, enough so as to approach Steve himself. Steve toys with the idea of bringing it up now as he watches Phil begin adding new ingredients to the mixing bowl. He's avoided it long enough and this is about as close to privacy as they're liable to get any time soon.

"Since you mentioned Clint," Steve begins, "it reminded me of a discussion he and I had recently."

"Oh?" Phil intones, focused on his ingredients.

"He told me you're gay," Steve says.

"I am," Phil responds, mixing the contents of the bowl.

"He also told me that you have feelings for me," Steve says, watching him carefully.

"I do," Phil answers, far more easily than Steve had anticipated. "I'd like to think we can conduct ourselves in a professional manner despite the fact, but if you feel it's going to be a problem or if it makes you uncomfortable, I'll talk to Fury about a transfer."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," Steve assures him. "And I'm not letting you transfer."

"Thank you," Phil says simply.

It's hard to read off of him, but Steve swears his response has made the agent seem… relieved. Steve drums his fingers on the countertop, watching Phil mix what he's now sure is frosting. He has another few questions, but there's no telling if they'll go as smoothly as this exchange had. No way of telling without just diving in.

"What kind of frosting is that?" he asks.

"Mango," Phil answers.

"Strawberry cake with mango frosting?"

"Barton has a horrible sweet tooth."

"Yeah, I can see that."

No, those weren't the questions he'd meant to ask. Steve mentally reprimands himself for cutting out at the last minute. He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly.

"Is it me or the suit?" he asks.

He hasn't felt nervous until now, until Phil pauses suddenly in his task. But the agent continues on after only a brief hesitation and answers Steve's question without appearing to be offended or hurt by the implication.

"I respect the suit," Phil says. "I don't want to date it."

"But you'd want to date me," Steve clarifies.

"That's generally what people who develop romantic feelings towards another individual would hope it might lead to," Phil says.

"In that case," Steve says, "will you have dinner with me?"

"As a co-worker, a friend or your date?"

"As my date."

"I'm free Thursday evening, does that work for you?"

"That works for me."

"Alright, Thursday then. Do you have a place in mind already?"

"I have a few I was considering."

"May I suggest something?"

"Of course."

Phil sets the mixing bowl aside at last and folds his arms across his chest as he meets Steve's eye. "You know that I still have my apartment. Why don't you meet me there at seven o'clock and let me cook for you."

"Should I bring red or white wine?"

"Red."

"Alright," Steve says with a nod. "Seven o'clock. Thursday. Red wine. Your place. It's a date."

"It's a date," Phil agrees.

For a few minutes, they both lapse into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Steve can't believe it was that easy. All the time he'd spent fretting and picturing all the ways it could go wrong, and instead they'd managed to answer each other's questions and plan a date in under ten minutes. He happens to look up just as Phil does and likes the way the stomach flutters when he grins and Phil smiles back. He fishes for something to say, but instead just ends up noticing the flour fingerprint on the agent's glasses.

"Here," he says, reaching out, "you've got a—"

Steve doesn't think much of reaching out to remove Phil's glasses. He huffs on the lens before cleaning it with his own t-shirt and holding it up to the light for inspection. When it's met his approval, he gently returns them to the agent's face. The man smiles when Steve's hands linger far longer than needed.

"Would it be rude if I asked to kiss you before our first date?" Steve wonders.

"If it is, then I think I'm okay with rude," Phil answers, moving just a fraction closer.

"Good, because I don't really feel like waiting," Steve says, his voice dropping in pitch as he leans in a tad himself.

"Fine by me," Phil murmurs, and Steve can feel his breath on his lips

He makes the last push forward, bridging the last bit of space between them by pressing their lips together. It's slow and chaste and when Steve breaks away, Phil follows and the soldier has no problem returning, glad to see that Phil apparently wants this every bit as much as he does.

_"Agent Coulson, I feel it's prudent to warn you that Dr. Banner is making his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea."_

Phil sighs, pulling away just enough to answer and Steve just can't be assed to feel embarrassed that they've been caught. Because who's JARVIS going to tell, anyway?

"Thank you, JARVIS," Phil says, even as Steve kisses the corner of his mouth trying to get him back. Phil pulls back entirely, smiling apologetically as Steve makes a disappointed noise before he presses one last kiss to the soldier's lips. "Save it for Thursday."

"Right," Steve answers.

"Why don't you try to get back to sleep," Phil suggests. "I'm nearly finished here."

"Just make sure you get some sleep, too," Steve says, sliding out of his seat.

"I will," Phil assures him. He waits until Steve's at the door before speaking again. "And Steve?"

The soldier stops, turning back curiously.

"I'm looking forward to Thursday," Phil says. "I really am."

"Me, too," Steve says. "It's something I've been hoping I could look forward to for a while now."

He doesn't miss the small, genuinely pleased smile on the agent's face, even though it's gone in nearly an instant as Bruce enters the kitchen. Steve bids them both goodnight before returning to the lift, still marveling at the fact that, for once, maybe it really was that simple. Simple's good. Simple works for him.


	10. Clothes (Capsicoul)

It's not really until they move in together that Steve finds out that Phil owns articles of clothing that do not comprise a suit; a fact that seems to please him to no end.

"Steve, it's just a cardigan."

"Steve, it's just a t-shirt."

"Steve, it's just a pair of jeans."

He's heard it all and then some, but he can't very well help it if he thinks Phil looks good in whatever he wears. Still, out of every stitch of clothing Phil owns, Steve discovers that the things he loves to see the agent wearing more than anything… doesn't actually belong to him.

"What are you doing?"

Phil looks back over his shoulder and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before returning his gaze to the eggs in the pan before him.

"Making breakfast," he answers.

"I can see that," Steve answers, walking across the kitchen until he's standing beside the shorter man. "I meant what are you doing—" He plucks the sleeve of the plaid shirt Phil's wearing. "—with this?"

"Oh," Phil says, glancing down at himself. "I couldn't find my robe, so I took your shirt off the chair. I'm doing laundry later today, so I figured you wouldn't mind."

"I don't mind," Steve assures him.

He should feel bad that he grips his partner by the arm and drags him away from the counter. He should feel bad when Phil protests that the stove is still on as he throws the agent over his shoulder and makes a beeline for their bedroom. He should feel bad when he drops the agent on the bed and tugs the man's boxers off before growling that the shirt and glasses should be left on.

But he can't feel all that bad when Phil's legs wrap around his waist and he's being encouraged to proceed. He can't feel bad when they're moving together so perfectly and Phil keeps making those quiet noises in his ear. And really, it's Phil's fault to begin with, because a pair of glasses and one of Steve's shirts shouldn't equate to hanging a sign around his neck that reads "Please fuck me."

"What was _that_ about?" Phil pants afterward. "You haven't been like _that_ since… that mission in Egypt…"

"I like it when you wear my clothes," Steve says breathily, kissing his neck.

"Apparently," Phil chuckles, sighing deeply. "What a way to start the morn—… Do you smell smoke?"

Steve freezes before bolting up when, speak of the devil, the smoke alarm goes off. "Oh my God, _the eggs_."

It's not the most graceful display for either of them as they fall out of bed and scramble towards the kitchen. Steve breaks out the fire extinguisher as Phil opens a few windows and takes care of the screaming fire alarm. Breakfast is beyond salvageable and they have to field a call or two from some nosy neighbors, but overall, Steve can't really bring himself to feel bad about any of it.

After that, Phil continues to sometimes _accidentally_ put on one of Steve's shirts… he just makes sure the stove isn't on when he does it.


	11. Bickering (NickPhil)

"Wow," Luke says.

The group of teen superheroes stares up at the viewing platform where Fury and Coulson are having what appears to be the fight of the century. At least, that's what it looks like from where they stand. They can't hear anything through the glass aside from muffled shouting, but with the hand motions and angry body language, they don't really need to know the specifics.

"I don't think I've ever seen Fury so—"

"Do _not_ say it," Ava cuts Peter off.

"—_furious_," Peter finishes regardless as Ava groans. "I mean, really, we've seen him pretty damn angry, but…"

"_Wow_," Luke repeats, slack-jawed.

"I feel like I should go clean my room," Sam says, fidgeting.

"You don't have a room here to clean," Danny reminds him.

"I just feel like they're going to come out here and yell at us because our rooms are a mess," Sam says.

There's a ripple of agreement among them. Somehow watch the two men argue incurs the rising of every teenager's instinctive reaction when mom and dad are fighting: find any excuse they might have to yell at you and eliminate it. That, or hide.

"My money's on Coulson," Ava announces.

"What? No way, Fury's got this," Luke scoffs.

"I dunno, you didn't see him fight the Beetle with me," Peter says, clucking his tongue. "It was pretty badass."

"Yeah, but you don't get more badass than Nick Fury," Sam argues. "He's got an eye patch. And a cool coat."

"Sometimes it's the understated badass who proves to be the most badass of them all," Danny adds. "Still, there's no denying Fury is indeed at the top of the list."

"Ten bucks says Fury wins," Luke suggests.

Ava snorts. "Why don't you just give me the money now and save yourself the trouble?"

"Let's make it interesting: The losing side has to do the winning side's homework for a week," Peter suggests.

"Hope you like Shakespeare, web head, because you've got a fifteen page essay to write for me," Sam crows.

"Ha! We'll see about that, bucket head!"

* * *

"You touched Lola."

"For Christ's sake, Phil, it's a _car_."

"Yes, a car. _My_ car. My car that we agreed you were never to touch."

"I can't believe you're complaining about this! She got all mucked up, so I took her to have her washed and instead of thanking me, you're complaining!?"

"You can't just take her to a car wash, Nick! Do you have any idea what all those chemicals will do? You've completely ruined the wax job I gave her this weekend."

"You are the most ungrateful bastard, do you know that? Never should have given you the damn car in the first place."

"Oh, really? Remind me again _why_ you gave her to me?"

"No. I am _not_ doing this with you."

"Oh, hey Phil, glad you're not in a coma anymore. Guess what? I told everyone you were dead! Guess what else? While you were dying against a wall, I smeared your blood on your _priceless, near-mint collection of Captain America cards_!"

"That was _two years ago_."

"And the only cards I have are still stained in blood."

"Look, I tried to get you another set but do you have any idea how hard those motherfuckers are to find?"

"Considering I found the entire set myself, yeah, I do."

"Okay, okay, I'm _sorry_ I lied about your death, I'm _sorry_ I ruined your cards, and I'm _sorry_ I touched Lola. Can we move on please."

"Fine. But you're helping me with her wax job this weekend."

"Hn. That the only _job_ you got planned?"

"Depends on how well you do. I will say that I'm a big fan of rewarding effort."

"Effort, huh? I'll show you some fucking effort."

* * *

The teens stare upward. For a minute, no one says anything.

"Are they _kissing_?" Sam shrieks.

"Oh my god, it's like watching your parents make out," Luke moans.

"Ohoho, this is definitely going on the S.H.I.E.L.D. Daddies blog," Ava cackles, retrieving her phone.

"Ava, what the _fuck_?" Peter nearly screams, horrified.

"I would prefer… to be elsewhere," Danny says vaguely.

* * *

"Wait, wait, stop, is that… Nick, why are the kids still here!?"

"What th—… I don't fucking know, _you're_ supposed to be my good eye!"

"You were the one running this training simulation, you should have… Oh, grow up, Parker."

"Little shit acts like he's never seen two grown men kissing."

"Look at the faces they're making."

"…please do not tell me Ayala is getting off on this."

"Ah. Right, I meant to tell you about the blog I stumbled upon…"

"Fuck."


	12. Graduation (Peter & Phil)

Peter's pissed. Beyond pissed. Pissed doesn't even begin to describe how he's feeling right now.

"Parker, you're going to be late for the graduation ceremony."

He looks down from the detention room's ceiling and finds Phil Coulson standing below him, complete with mild smile and too-neat suit. Exactly the person Peter doesn't want to see right now. Peter huffs and folds his arms across his chest, knowing he must look ridiculous stuck to the ceiling in his cap and gown.

"I don't care."

"You might not, but I know May does," Phil says.

Peter shifts his glance guiltily and drops from the ceiling. Phil watches him closely before sighing and taking a seat at one of the student desks, motioning to the one opposite him.

"Why don't you have a seat and tell me what's bothering you," Phil instructs.

"Oh, I don't know… _everything_?" Peter declares. "It's just… everyone's leaving. We're supposed to be a team and teams don't walk out on each other like this."

"They've all been accepted to excellent schools. Ayala got a very nice scholarship, as did Cage and Rand. Alexander's off to one of the best culinary schools in the country," Phil says. "Are you saying you're unhappy for your team?"

"No! Of course I'm happy for them," Peter says quickly. "But how are we supposed to be a team when we're all spread across the country?"

"You're not," Phil answers.

Peter's not sure what kind of answer he was expecting, but it wasn't that one. Phil shifts in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.

"You're not just graduating from high school, you're graduation from Director Fury's program. As with high school, that means you're all headed in separate directions. Some of the friends you make in high school you will have for the rest of your life, but the majority of them you will almost never see again," Phil explains. "It's just the way of things. Now, that's not to say you'll never see your team again. Some of them will be working with the West Coast Avengers and some of them will be working solo. You might not be a team ever again, or maybe you will. We just can't say at this juncture. Regardless, you will still have the experiences that have made you what you are today and no matter how far down the line you meet each other, you will always have that shared bond. You'll be seeing them again, Parker, it just may not be the way you see them now."

"And what about you?" Peter asks sullenly.

"What about me?" Phil counters patiently.

"You're leaving, too!" Peter says angrily. "Look… Everything's changing now and I thought I could at least count on you to be around, but no. Fury already told us that you're off to go play with the Avengers. We know it was your original assignment and you got stuck with us instead, so I bet you're real fucking happy to be finished with babysitting duty, huh, _Phil_? Just couldn't wait to get rid of us, could you?"

"Working with the Avengers was my original assignment and I will admit that in the beginning I was frustrated by what I thought was a demotion," Phil admits. "I'm not going to lie about that. But I will say that I was very, very wrong. And for that I'm sorry."

"'Sorry' doesn't make up for the fact that you're leaving," Peter retorts.

"You don't need me around anymore," Phil says with a patient smile. "You haven't for a long time."

"I know I don't _need_ you, I just…" Peter says, letting his sentence drop off. "I just don't want everyone to leave."

Peter doesn't get an answer. Phil leans back in his seat, gazing pensively at the desk beside him. The teen waits for an answer, any kind of answer. Minutes tick by and when it's apparent he isn't going to get one, he rolls his eyes, and rises from his seat.

"Just a minute, Mr. Parker," Phil says, his tone crisp with authority as he rises with him. "We're not finished here."

"What, then?" Peter asks, crossing his arms.

"When Fury first recruited you, I had my doubts. You didn't play well with others, you talked a big game that you couldn't always deliver on and you had a habit of letting your ego get in the way," Phil says.

"If you're trying to keep me from leaving, you're not doing a good job of it," Peter says flatly.

Phil holds up a hand and Peter falls silent.

"Now, you may be as stubborn and as big a pain as you were when you first started, but you've learned. Over the years, I've had the privilege of watching you grow as an individual as well as a hero, and at times have even had the honor of aiding that growth," Phil says slowly. "Along with your team, you've struggled and overcome more obstacles than anyone your age should have to face."

Phil chuckles.

"Being a teenager is hard. I was one once, as difficult as it might be to believe, and those years were not kind to me. Being a teenage superhero, however… that's even harder. So, today, instead of focusing on what you believe you're losing, focus on all the things you've gained and all that you've accomplished. Today is a big day and you've more than earned it," Phil tells him.

Phil has never struck him as the touchy-feely type, so Peter's more than a little surprised when the agent's hands come to rest on his shoulders.

"I'm proud of you, Peter," Phil tells him.

Peter finds it hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. It's not as though he's ever sought out the man's approval, but getting it makes it feel as though it's something he didn't know he wanted. And maybe he's a little overemotional, and maybe he just needs it, but he doesn't know exactly why he throws his arms around Phil's middle and buries his face in the agent's jacket when his eyes start to prickle.

Because it feels like goodbye, like something's ending, like it's over and he doesn't want that. He doesn't want goodbyes, he doesn't want change. Why can't things just stay the way they are? But they can't. He knows that. They have to change, they all have to grow and move on.

"Thank you," Peter says.

He can hear the tears in his own voice, and wishes they weren't there, but can't will them away. A simple thank you is all he can manage, but he hopes the agent understands that it's not just for today's pep talk.

He feels a hand patting his back firmly and he swears he thinks Phil might be holding onto him as tightly as he's holding on to Phil. Eventually they do break apart and Phil is handing him tissues and Peter blows hos nose and desperately tries to make it look as though he hadn't been crying. Because he totally hadn't. Just like Phil's eyes are totally not watery.

The agent clears his throat. "I was going to wait until tomorrow to tell you, but I suppose now is as good a time as any. Captain Rogers and I have been discussing the matter… and we'd like you to join the Avengers."

"Me?" Peter says dumbly.

"No, the other Peter Parker in the room," Phil says flatly. "Yes, of course you. What do you think?"

"I… yeah. I'd be honored," Peter says, feeling a bit numb. "That would be amazing."

"Good," Phil says with a grin. "I'll meet with him tomorrow with your decision and the three of us can plan a meeting for next week."

Peter's still a little blown away when they step out of the detention room and walk down the hall together. It still feels like there's too much happening in one day, too many things to take in, but he feels better about it. Lighter somehow. It's not the end of the world. It's an end of sorts, but just to this chapter. He knows there's still more to be written.

"I was thinking," Peter says suddenly, finding the way his voice echoes along the eerily empty halls to be distracting. "No one's going to replace Uncle Ben. But Aunt May could do a lot worse. And if you want to ask her… I'd be okay with that."

He's surprised by how much that makes Phil blush, but the agent's flustered look quickly turns into one of suspicion. Peter clears his throat anxiously.

"I, um… I saw the ring," Peter admits.

"You've been snooping through my desk again," Phil says.

"If you know I've done it before, maybe you shouldn't have left it there in the first place," Peter says defensively.

"You're right. That is, unless I was banking on the fact that you would go snooping again and would therefore see it," Phil says.

"You son of a bitch," Peter says.

"_There_ you are!"

The two of them look up at the voice and find the rest of Peter's team running down the hallway towards them.

"Come on, they're about to start seating us!" Ava says insistently. She looks to Phil. "You're supposed to be up on stage!"

"Uh, right, well… had to make sure the detention room door was locked," Peter says with a shrug.

"It's locked, good, great, grand," Sam says. "Now hurry up so we can get those diplomas."

Peter gives Phil a questioning glance, but the agent just shoos them away. "Go on, be with your team. I'll see you all on-stage."

Letting his team drag him through the halls, Peter knows they won't get many more opportunities like this. There are a lot of changes just around the corner, but here and now, he's not going to let them bother him. Here and now he's with his team and together they're about to take a monumental step forward. Whatever happens after that, well… they'll just have to wait and find out.


	13. Sick Day (PhilMay)

May Parker isn't one to let a case of the sniffles get her down. Unfortunately, what she's got is no case of the sniffles and, under doctor's orders, she's not supposed to leave bed. After a full day of bed rest, she's managed to convince her minder that taking some pillows and blankets to the living room sofa is entirely acceptable and won't kill her.

"You should be at work," she says, smothering a cough in a wad of tissues.

"They'll survive a day without me," Phil answers.

May gives him a disbelieving look as he sets the tray he's carrying on the coffee table. She knows his phone must be buzzing like crazy. Just like his back-up phone. And his _other_ back-up phone. Because Phil can't be away from S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers for five minutes without someone needing something.

"I took a sick day," he says.

"You're not sick," she says with a laugh, which quickly dissolves into a cough.

"No, but you are," Phil points out. He leans in and brushes her hair away before pressing his cheek to her forehead. She notes that he lingers a little longer than is strictly necessary before he hums thoughtfully and pulls away. "A little better than yesterday."

"Is that your professional opinion?" May asks with a smile.

"As an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and part-time member of the educational community, that is my professional opinion," Phil says with a smile to match. He shifts his attention to the tray he'd brought with him. "Now, you're not due for another dose of antibiotics for another…"

He consults his watch.

"…forty-five minutes, but you can't take them on an empty stomach. Think you can get some soup down?" he asks her.

She really doesn't want to, but she knows antibiotics on an empty stomach will be hell and he _did_ spend all that time making it himself. If she could taste it, she's sure it would be delicious, but as it stands she's just going to have to settle for using it to soothe her throat a little. When she's had enough, Phil moves the tray away and sits on the sofa beside her, which would be one thing, except he's got an arm around her and is trying to get her to lie back against him.

"You're going to get sick," May warns the agent, trying to shoo him off.

He chuckles warmly and kisses the top of her head. "I'll take my chances."

If she's being honest, it's not like she wants him to leave anyway. And it's nice to be pampered a little bit. And he's such a comfortable pillow. With a sigh she gives up and leans back against him, letting him tug the comforter over both of them.

"Oh, Steve wanted me to give you this," Phil says, reaching for something and handing it to her. "He heard you weren't feeling well."

May looks over the hand-drawn card carefully. "Such a nice man."

"Mmhmm. Pepper sends her regards," Phil says, massaging her shoulders. "Tony tried to send you an entire florist shop, but I managed to stop him."

"Oh, thank god."

"I talked him down to a single bouquet, so expect that."

"He really didn't have to."

"None of them did, but I still came home with a bag full of 'get well' tokens, regardless. Which reminds me: Bruce would like to stop by tomorrow to see how you're doing."

"This is why they say it's dangerous to date a secret agent, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so. You just might end up killed… by kindness."

Not many people can say they have superheroes sending them get well cards, she supposes. It's all really very sweet, she thinks, if a bit much. She wonders if they're this bad with Phil. She wonders if they're _worse_. God, what would worse even look like? She doesn't think she wants to know.

"It's their way of showing their approval. They seem to think you're good for me," Phil informs her.

"Oh, really? And what do you think?" she asks.

"I think they're right," Phil answers warmly.

May reaches up and squeezes the hand on her left shoulder. "You're good for me, too."

"I'm glad you think so," Phil says. He tilts his wrist, obviously checking his watch again. "Alright, time for some antibiotics. And after that, what do you say to a nice, hot bath?"

She sighs slowly at the mere thought of it. "I'd say good thinking."

* * *

Apparently the soup hadn't sat as well as she'd thought it had. About an hour after her bath, May finds herself kneeling over the toilet, her stomach muscles beyond sore as her body continues to try to expel what it no longer has.

There's a cool cloth on the back of her neck and she can feel Phil rubbing slow circles in her back, murmuring soothingly all the while. She supposes this isn't even close to comparing to some of the things he's had to deal with as an agent, but it certainly doesn't make her feel any better about it. Being on her knees with her head practically in the toilet as she dry heaves isn't exactly her finest moment.

Eventually her stomach stops trying to turn itself inside out and she's able to pull away. Her legs feel like jelly as she rinses her mouth out at the sink and, much to her embarrassment, Phil decides to help with that.

"It's fine, May, just put your arms around my neck," he instructs, one arm looped around her waist as he ducks down.

"Phil, don't," she argues, her voice hoarse and her throat raw.

But it's not enough to deter him from doing what he set out to do. And, okay, maybe it's sweet that he decides to pick her up and carry her back to the room—bridal style, no less. But he can't go making a habit out of it. He looks faintly amused as he settles her on the bed.

"You know, I took today off so I could take care of you," Phil tells her.

"And I told you I would have been fine," May reminds him. "You didn't have to take a day off for me."

"I know you would have been and that I didn't have to. But I _want_ to be here," he says. "How're you feeling now?"

"A little queasy still," she admits before yawning unexpectedly. "And tired, apparently."

"Okay, why don't you try a few sips of ginger ale and then take a little nap," he suggests.

"Only if you take one with me."

"I'll agree to those terms."

So, she still feels pretty lousy and it'll probably be another few days before she feels well, but in the meantime, a little extra cuddle time isn't something she's going to complain about.

* * *

May clucks her tongue as she looks at the readout on the thermometer.

"103.2, you are _definitely_ staying home from work," she announces.

Phil groans from where he's huddled beneath the sheets.

"No buts," May tuts. "I'm calling Nick right now."

She can hear the agent protesting weakly that he's fine, that he can still make it to work on time, as she dials the number on her cell.

_"Let me guess: he's sick."_

"Afraid so," May says, pushing Phil gently back against the pillows as he attempts to rise. "He seems to be under the impression that he's coming in to work today."

She hears Nick snort. _"I don't want his germ-infested ass anywhere near me. And you can tell him I said so."_

May _does_ tell him Nick said so and gets a series of miserable coughs in response.

_"That him?"_

"You should hear it from where I'm standing," May tells him. "Is there any chance you could send Bruce by, if he's free and it's not too much trouble?"

_"I'll have him give you a call."_

So, in the end, Phil's cleared for a few sick days and Bruce calls to confirm he'll be swinging by sometime in the next two hours. May pats the agent's back worriedly as he coughs and shivers.

"I told you you'd get sick," she says.

"Worth it," Phil mumbles into the pillows.


	14. Health Scare (Capsicoul)

Phil doesn't stop to wonder when they became a Monster-of-the-Week-fighting organization largely because he doesn't have time to stop and consider the series of events that have lead up to it all, due to being busy fighting the Monster of the Week. Today it's been something that more closely resembles either a gigantic, angry slug with a maw full of daggers, or a particularly viciously fanged, gigantic wad of phlegm. Either description fits. It had gone as close to 'swimmingly' as possible until a combined strike from Iron Man and Thor had pierced the creature's skin. At that point, it was almost like watching a balloon deflate, but instead of air, it was slowly releasing some sort of noxious, yellowish gas.

Uncertain what the gas was or what it might do, Steve called for an evacuation, which Phil coordinated from the Helicarrier. It would have gone just fine if Steve hadn't done what Steve does best, namely putting himself in harm's way for someone else's sake. Phil hadn't allowed himself to react outwardly as he watched the gelatinous creature essentially absorb the captain, just had issued a slightly terser than usual request to Tony to retrieve the man.

Thor seemed ready to charge in and assist, but Phil quickly put a stop to that, ordering them all back to the Helicarrier on the grounds that they didn't need anyone else contaminated and Tony's suit protects him from that. Thor doesn't seem pleased in the slightest, but meets Phil about half-way; he doesn't return to the Helicarrier, but remains on the perimeter, calling down tremendous bolts of lightning from above to provide support.

Eventually, Tony emerges from the creature—although, 'explodes outward' is more fitting—pulling Steve along with him. It's plain to see it had done the captain no good, and the gas seems to be making a bad situation worse. A final strike from Thor puts the creature down for good.

From there, Phil keeps his focus on the task in front of him, which is now to establish a quarantine, send in a hazmat team to deal with the clean-up and open a line of communication with MIB to see if they have any idea why a thirty ton alien slug suddenly appeared in the middle of the city. His temper steadily rising as he speaks with Agent K means he's too distracted to notice Jasper come up behind him.

"Agent K, enough already," he barks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

_"I'm just sayin', son, maybe you oughtta be checkin' in on that boyfriend of yours instead of hootin' and hollerin' in my ear."_

"Could you remain focused for five minutes please?" Phil sighs. He leans forward in his seat, the worry which had been eating at him for the past twenty minutes suddenly intensifying. "Why, what do you know?"

_"I don't know how a super soldier might handle it, but the last time a human came into contact with one of these puppies, they didn't last long."_

"Alright, is there anything we should know about how to decontaminate and treat anyone in that came into contact with it?" Phil prompts.

_"Things is, Glorchii tend not to hang around; our atmosphere's toxic to them, so we've never had a chance to study them long enough to develop a guideline on how to react to an attack. I'm guessin' yours was just lookin' for a place to die."_

Jasper taps him on the shoulder, making a 'gimme' motion towards the phone. Phil tries not to let his relief show.

"I'm putting you on with Agent Sitwell," he says quickly, rising from his seat and transferring the call to Jasper's headset.

He nods his head in silent thanks as his fellow agent waves him off. It's no secret that he and Agent K do not exactly get on—or perhaps that he doesn't get on with Agent K—and the excuse to cool his heels and go check on Steve is sorely needed.

* * *

Steve has felt better, he's not going to lie. Lying in a quarantined chamber in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical, he knows he's in for some bad news. Not that he can't guess based on how he's feeling. His throat and chest burn constantly, forcing him to cough and only aggravating it further. It's hard to breath; he remembers what an asthma attack feels like and this is pretty damn close to it, he has to admit. His skin itches and stings, and running his hand over his forearms tells him that there are a series of blisters along his forearms and his face and likely the rest of him as well. His skin is probably red and irritated, going by the feel of it.

He'd confirm all this by looking if not for the simple fact that he can't see. Well… nothing beyond vague shapes and a few colors, anyway.

But he can still hear. He hears the hiss of the quarantine chamber door opening and someone walking inside. He hears the individual tread closer and sit without a word. The feeling of a gloved hand gently patting his tells him everything he needs to know.

"You have work to do, agent," he says, his voice a thin rasp.

"Agent Sitwell is taking over for the moment. I received Director Fury's permission to check in on you," Phil answers.

The agent doesn't sound worried, his voice as smooth and even as ever, but Steve knows he is. Because they're both professionals and professionalism dictates that they get the job done first, even when one of them is injured in the line of duty. The fact that Phil has done what essentially equates to dropping everything and running to his side means there's something to worry about.

"I'm glad you're here," Steve says.

"I just wish I didn't have to wear this hazmat suit," Phil answers, his words muffled by the suit.

"We're not running the risk of contaminating you, too," Steve says, clearing his throat and wincing at the sharp stabs of pain.

"I contacted MIB, and they're doing everything they can to assist us," Phil tells him. "Agent K informed me that this is a life form they're less familiar with, so it may take time to figure out how best to treat you."

"You talked to your dad?"

"It was a brief conversation. Sitwell's on with him now."

While Phil is civil, his interactions—when he can't avoid them— with Agent K tend to run on the cold side. If Phil had directly called his father, then Steve knows it's not good news.

"Can you relax for me?" Steve asks hoarsely.

"I am relaxed."

"I'll be okay."

"I know you will."

"You don't have to worry."

"I'm not worrying."

To Steve's ears, each reassurance just solidifies Phil's transparent—transparent to him, anyway—concern. But really, they're both just lying to each other, aren't they? He doesn't know if he'll be okay and neither does Phil, but they're not about to admit that.

He gropes blindly for the other man's hand and squeezes it tightly, as much as it hurts him to do so. Because he wants Phil close and it hurts not to be able to have him closer, but he'd never dream of doing anything that might compromise his partner's safety so he settles for this. He wishes he could see, but knows what the sight that would greet him if he could; that perfect poker face and blue-grey eyes he can read like a book.

"How long can you stay?" Steve asks him, barely able to force his words above a whisper.

"I'm not leaving," Phil answers, squeezing his hand back. The subtle shift in tone doesn't escape him; the one that tells him he's not talking to Agent Coulson anymore. Just Phil. It's just Phil and Steve now, and somehow that's better and so much worse than Agent Coulson and Captain America. Professional distance evaporates and suddenly everything seems too real, too big, too much to handle. "They can manage the rest without me. I'm staying right here, Steve."

Everything hurts and it doesn't seem to be letting up. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on something else, but the pain is persistent. He slides in and out of consciousness, never knowing for what period of time, but always knowing that he does for the feeling of waking. He knows that Phil doesn't leave him. He doesn't know how he knows that, but he's certain of it.

And Phil isn't going to leave.

He's certain of that, too.

* * *

Eventually they determine that, although he had worsened the first night, the serum was naturally combatting whatever toxins were in his system and that given time, he'd pull through. It's nearly a week later that he regains his sight, though it's the middle of the night, so the room they'd moved him to is empty save for he and Phil. The agent is asleep in the chair beside the bed, but wakes when Steve moves to sit up. Phil smiles as he discovers Steve is not only looking at him but can actually _see_ what he's looking at.

"That's a sight for sore eyes," Steve says.

Phil moves from his seat and leans over Steve, pressing a kiss to his forehead before pulling back to get a good look at him.

"How are you feeling?" he asks quietly.

"Better. Good enough to leave, anyway," Steve answers, looking up at him.

"Another day or two and we'll see," Phil says. He takes a seat on the side of the bed. "You gave everyone a bit of a scare."

"Everyone?" Steve prods.

"Yes," Phil answers, slowly. "Everyone."

It's as close as he'll get to hearing those words from Phil: I was scared. Because Phil would never admit that he'd had doubts. But Steve knows the truth of it because, plain and simple, he'd been scared, too. So he tugs on the agent's hand until they're lying together in a bed that is certainly not built for two. His head is pillowed on Phil's chest and between the slow, steady thump of the agent's heartbeat and the fingers running through his hair, Steve's on the steady road back to sleep.

"You have no idea," Phil says quietly, as though it's a secret, "how thankful I am that you're going to be alright."

"Did I scare you?" Steve murmurs drowsily.

"More than anything," Phil replies. "I'd ask you not to do it again, but…"

"That'd be a hollow promise."

"It would be."

"But I'm alright now, Phil."

"Yes, you are. And for now, that's all I need."

Steve knows there will be more scares in the future, for both of them. But for now, the fear's passed and dwelling on the could be's and the maybe's will do neither of them any good. For now, they're fine. And for now, that's all either of them need.


	15. Secret Talent (Capsicoul)

Dealing with a de-aged Tony Stark is every bit as trying as Steve would have imagined. Dealing with a full-grown Tony Stark is hard enough at times, never mind a baby. For the past five days they've been frantically trying to find a solution—be it through magic or science—but none has been forthcoming. Tony's a bit of a fussy baby and once he starts crying, it can take them anywhere from twenty minutes to a full two hours to calm him enough so that he ceases his caterwauling.

Tony calms more easily for some of them than others, but the quickest Steve's ever seen him quiet down is late into the fifth night. It's Steve's night as Tony's primary minder, not that the others aren't close by, so when he hears hiccupping on the baby monitor followed by a few warning whimpers, he sets his sketchpad aside and makes his way to the infant's room.

To his great surprise, as he's walking, he hears a voice coupled with the baby's cries from the monitor in his hand. Phil's voice. He can hear the agent shushing the crying child before he begins speaking.

_"Shh, shh, come on now, you're alright. Let's get you up here… There. That's better, isn't it? Now, how can we get you back to sleep, hmm?"_

To his further surprise, Steve hears Phil quietly begin to sing. The tune is familiar to him, the yodeled bits being gently hummed instead and followed by soft lyrics. He's heard Phil sing once or twice in the shower, but never like this. Steve pauses when he reaches the room, long enough to shut the monitor off and cautiously crack the door open.

He can hear Phil for himself now and watches, captivated, as the agent rocks Tony as he sings. The infant's head is tucked closely to Phil's neck and he steadily pats the baby's back... and there's no more crying. Tony's not even making so much as a peep. Steve drinks in the sight of his partner, devoid of his suit coat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, swaying smoothly on his feet. It's almost funny, considering that Phil and Tony have been known to butt heads, that the agent is holding their de-aged teammate as though he is the most precious thing imaginable. In the dim light of the room, handling the child so naturally, Phil looks every bit the loving father.

Phil catches sight of him and holds a finger to his lips, signaling Steve to be quiet. As Steve tiptoes closer, he can see that Tony is out like a light, sucking on his pacifier and curled against Phil's chest. Phil slowly lowers Tony back into the crib and covers him with his baby blanket. The two of them linger, leaning over the side of the crib. Steve watches Phil watch Tony, makes note of the way his partner reaches down to sweep downy hair away from the slumbering infant's forehead. When they're sure that the baby is truly asleep, they exit the room as silently as possible.

"That's the fastest I've ever seen him quiet down," Steve says in amazement as they sit on the sofa in the living room. He places the baby monitor on the coffee table and wraps an arm around Phil's shoulders. "How did you do it?"

"I can't say one way or another, but I've been told I'm good with children," Phil answers, loosening his tie and leaning into Steve's side with a sigh. "I just did what I know how to do."

"If someone had told me you were his father, I wouldn't have even questioned it," Steve says with a chuckle. He rubs the agent's shoulder. "Based off of what Tony's told me, maybe he would've been better off if that were the case."

It still stings to think of, that Howard could have treated his son so poorly. That he could have neglected Tony like that. That's not the Howard Steve knew, and part of him wonders, if he hadn't gone down in that plane, would Howard still have turned into that person? It does little good to dwell on, he knows, but it doesn't stop him from continuing to do so.

"Not everyone is fit to be a parent," Phil says slowly. "But that doesn't mean their children should suffer for it. There are any number of studies that show how important touch and physical presence are to infants and small children. No child deserves to go without being held as though they are the most important thing in the world to the person holding them."

"I wonder if he'll remember it when we fix all this," Steve wonders.

Phil hums in agreement, his eyes closed as he leans into Steve. The soldier continues to rub his shoulder, knowing he's not gotten much sleep this past week. He has no problem at all with letting Phil fall asleep pressed to his side, but a thought occurs to him and try as he might, he can't keep it to himself.

"Did your father ever hold you like that?" Steve asks softly.

"Before he left, yes," Phil answers. "He used to sing me that song."

"What about you? Did you ever want kids?" Steve asks.

Phil doesn't answer straight away, and Steve considers that perhaps the agent's fallen asleep.

"I've always wanted children, but I never found the right person and it was never the right time," Phil murmurs. "And with my job, trying to adopt on my own would have been impossible, not to mention selfish. It just… wasn't in the cards."

"You say that like it's too late," Steve notices.

Phil chuckles quietly. "Steve, I'm nearly fifty. That ship has sailed."

"That's not too late in my book," Steve corrects him. When Phil doesn't answer, Steve leans over and presses his lips to the top of the agent's head. "Regardless, I think you'd make a great father, Phil. Watching you with Tony… you look like you were made for it."

But Phil's already fast asleep. Steve smiles and tucks him closer and allows himself, just for a moment, to picture what he's seen tonight, with some slight alterations. He wonders what it would be like, watching Phil hold a baby that's theirs with the same tender care with which he'd held Tony. It's nothing more than a daydream, and very likely to remain that way, so he contents himself with the knowledge that Phil's unfounded desire to be a father won't go to waste; a few days can't undo an entire childhood, but being treated the way he should have been treated may do Tony a little good. And maybe, just maybe, it might help to put some of the genius's own doubts about fatherhood to rest.


	16. Intimacy (Capsicoul)

Peter walks through the halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, headed in the direction of Coulson's office. Tonight the agent is departing on an undercover mission in Europe with Hawkeye and it's projected that he won't be back for at least two months. Thankfully, school's out for the summer, so there's no need to explain why the high school's principle has apparently decided to take a two month vacation. Not that it wouldn't have been fun to spread as many rumors as they could think of in his absence, mind you. Still, he's going to be gone and it's going to be dangerous, so Danny had suggested the team get a good luck card and that they all sign it. Peter had been the one tasked to deliver it.

It's eerie how quiet HQ can be at night, but then, he supposes that for some of them, this is just like any other 9-to-5. Gotta clock out sometime, right? He continues down the hall and bears right, only to find that the office at the end of the corridor is dark. Standing outside the door, he wonders if it's possible he's missed Coulson, but he knows for a fact that the agent isn't due to leave for another four hours. Curiously, he knocks on the door, but gets no response.

"Agent Coulson?" he calls, rapping on the door once again.

Nothing but silence. Frowning, he decides to take a walk to the break room on the off chance that the man has decided to grab a cup of coffee. Peering through the glass, he can see that Coulson is indeed in there, but he's definitely not getting coffee and he's far from alone.

It's no secret to him or the team these days that Captain America and Agent Coulson are essentially S.H.I.E.L.D.'s power couple, but actually catching them _behaving_ like a couple is like sighting the Loch Ness Monster. So even though the room is empty aside from the two of them, it's still surprising to see the captain pressing the agent up against the counter behind him. It's strange, though. It's not as though Peter's caught them making out or having sex or anything like that, but somehow… this is worse.

Their foreheads are pressed together, Cap's face tilted down and Coulson's tilted up. They both have their eyes closed, as though opening them means the moment has to end and it's clear neither of them want that. They're so close, slotted together like puzzle pieces, like they were made to fit this way. Cap's hands grip Coulson's hips tightly and though the agent's hands start by resting over the taller man's hands, they don't remain there.

Peter can see Coulson's lips moving silently as his hands slide slowly up the length of the soldier's forearms. They stop when they reach the crook of the blonde's elbows and he squeezes Cap's arms for emphasis on whatever he's saying. Cap frowns, but nods minutely as he says something back. Peter can actually _see_ Coulson's sigh, even if he can't hear it, as Cap's hands circle around the agent's waist and come to lie at the small of his back.

Coulson's speaking again as his hands continue upward, jumping from the captain's forearms to his shoulders. They pat lightly before coming to rest on either side of Cap's face. Coulson pulls away, opening his eyes to look at the soldier still holding him close. When Cap's eyes remain squeezed shut, Peter sees Coulson say something—something that he thinks is the other man's name—as his thumbs gently caress the taller man's cheekbones.

That little bit of prompting is enough to get Cap to open his eyes, which is enough to make Coulson smile. The captain tries to return it, although try as he might, he can't seem to keep the slight shade of sadness out of it. But Cap takes a deep breath and tries again, smiles just a bit brighter as he kisses the other man, once on the forehead and once on the lips.

It's neither wild nor passionate, nothing to suggest that either of them would like to be doing much more than kissing. If anything, Peter would describe it as chaste. But the strangest thing is that witnessing these seemingly simple touches and modest brush of one's lips against another's have left him feeling embarrassed.

There is nothing sexual about their embrace, nothing suggestive in the way they touch each other, and somehow that makes Peter feel as though he's intruded on something deeply private that isn't meant for his or anyone else's eyes. Not… that the two of them having sex would be meant for anyone's eyes either, but this is different. Intimate in a way that sex could never hope to be.

So he turns his back to the door, cheeks a healthy pink, and decides to wait until they come out.

* * *

"I'll be back before you know it," Phil says.

"Two months is a long time," Steve sighs. "I just don't know—"

"Steve. Look at me. I'll be fine. My doctors cleared me for a full return to active duty four months ago and I'll have Clint with me for the duration of this mission, as well as several other S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives working undercover nearby," Phil reassures him. "This will be good for me."

"I know," Steve says, frowning. "I'm not trying to imply you're not capable, I'm just… worried. That's all. And I'm going to miss you."

Phil huffs a laugh. "I'll miss you, too. And I promise I'll make it up to you when I get back."

"Just come home," Steve says. "That's all I'm asking."

"I'm certainly going to do my best," Phil answers. "Keep an eye on the kids for me?"

"Of course," Steve tells him. "Although, speaking of, I think we've got company."

Phil turns his head and through the glass of the door, he can see Peter standing with his back to the door. With an amused look at Steve, they break apart so that Phil can see what it is Peter's standing there for.

"Can I help you, Mr. Parker?" Phil asks as he pulls the door open.

Peter flails like he's been caught snooping. "What? _No_."

Phil raises an eyebrow and hears Steve's chuckle behind him. Peter's face just turns that much redder.

"I mean," Peter tries again, "yes. Uh, here. It's from the team. Danny thought, you know, we should just… wish you luck. So… good luck."

The teen shoves the card at Phil, trying to get rid of it as quickly as possible. Phil accepts the card, a little surprised by the sentiment, but not really showing it.

"Thank you, Parker," he says. He observes Peter's beet red face and the way the young man stares at anything but him or Steve. He holds a hand out. "I'll be back in two months. Stay out of trouble, please."

Peter looks up at that, face still pink and grinning a little as he shakes Phil's hand. "Come on, us? Trouble? You must be thinking of a different group of teen superheroes."

"That's what I thought," Phil answers with a knowing sigh. "Goodnight, Parker."

"And good luck," Peter says. He waves a little around Phil. "Later, Cap."

"Bye, Peter," Steve says with a wave. "Don't forget, training session on Wednesday."

"Yeah! Looking forward to it! Uh…" Peter says. He motions between the two of them. "As you were."

They watch as Peter beats a hasty retreat, face still glowing with embarrassment. Phil turns to Steve and the soldier merely shrugs. Pushing away from the counter, Steve stoops to pick up Phil's suitcase and holds out his free hand.

"Come on," Steve says. "Clint's expecting us for dinner, remember."

"Right," Phil answers, linking his hand with Steve's. "Better get there before he fills up on bread again."

* * *

Peter damn near runs through the halls in his effort to place as much distance as possible between himself and the situation he'd walked in on. In his haste to escape, he doesn't notice someone just around the corner and runs headlong into Nick Fury.

"Parker, what the fu—"

"_I didn't see anything_," Peter shrieks.

Nick stares as the teen holds his hands up defensively before scurrying away. The director sighs and shakes his head, continuing on his way. Fucking kids.


	17. Take Your Medicine (Capsicoul)

"You're not being serious right now," Phil says.

The agent is standing beside the bed, staring disbelievingly at the lump in the center of it. After being released from the hospital, Steve had been placed on a heavy regiment of medication. While it was true the serum was slowly working the toxin out of his system, the medication helped speed the process along, as well as helped to deal with some of the symptoms. Or it would, if only Steve would just take it.

It's not as though Phil doesn't know of Steve's history. After so much of his life spent sick and weak, it's not surprising that the soldier isn't overly fond of medication or doctors or hospital stays. But still, Phil hadn't expected the man to be quite so stubborn about it. It's borderline childish, if he's being honest.

"I don't need it," comes Steve's muffled reply from beneath the sheets. "The serum's taking care of it."

"But not quickly enough," Phil reminds him. "You'll recover three times as quickly if you just stick to Bruce's plan."

"I'm fine," Steve huffs.

Phil sighs slowly, setting the pills and glass of water on the nightstand. He sits himself on the side of the bed and pats the lump beneath the sheets.

"Can you come out from under there so we can have an adult conversation, please?" Phil asks.

He watches the lump shift with great reluctance before the covers are pulled down just enough for sleepy looking blue eyes to peek at him. Steve doesn't lower the covers past his nose, like he's expecting Phil to try to force feed him those pills if he lets his guard up.

"Since you clearly despise this so much that you're willing to hide to avoid it, I propose we do something to make the situation more… desirable," Phil explains.

"What are you suggesting?" Steve asks, looking genuinely curious.

"I was thinking of establishing a reward system," Phil says. "You do this, and I reward you. What do you think?"

"I think," Steve says, sitting himself up a bit, "that would depend on the reward."

Phil hums thoughtfully. It would, wouldn't it? Thankfully, he thinks he's got something that will meet with the other man's approval. With a slow smile, he gently pushes the covers aside and leans in to kiss his partner on the forehead. Steve is quite obviously confused by Phil's hand on his chest and the enigmatic smile on his face.

"If you swallow your medicine," Phil says lowly, his hand traveling down to cup the other man through his boxers, "I'll swallow mine."

His grin widens when he feels Steve shiver and he knows he's won. Twenty minutes later, the glass of water on the nightstand is empty, the pills are gone and Steve has his hand pressed to the back of Phil's head, moaning and cursing as the agent swallows around him.

"A satisfactory reward, I take it?" Phil asks, sitting back on his haunches and looking immensely pleased with himself as he licks his lips.

"You drive a hard bargain, Agent Coulson," Steve answers with a breathy laugh. "But what do you plan to do tomorrow? Or the day after that?"

Phil's mind wanders to the locked box at the back of his closet. More specifically to the contents of that box. They've kept their relationship fairly vanilla thus far and, ironically enough, this might present as a good opportunity to introduce Steve to something new. He pats the soldier's thigh fondly, his tone ringing with amusement as he says,

"Oh, I'm sure we can come up with something."


	18. Gun Shy (Tony & Phil)

"You're not wearing a holster," Tony points out.

Phil looks up from the screen in front of him. "You say that like you're surprised."

"Well, considering that we're about to go raid a HYDRA base, yeah," Tony answers. "You might want to consider checking something out of the armory."

Phil waves him off. "I'll manage."

"Uh, no," Tony butts in, wiping the holographic map off the screen. Phil looks to him with mild annoyance, waiting for a good explanation but appearing as though he doesn't think he'll get one. "You're not going in unarmed."

"Mr. Stark—"

"No. No buts," Tony says. "I get it, you're feeling like you have to prove yourself after being out of commission so long after the Loki thing."

"Not really."

"You're looking for something to get the blood pumping. Something to get you back on your feet that'll show us you're ready," Tony says, apparently not having heard the other man. "Believe me, I get it."

"I don't think you do," Phil says flatly.

"There are better ways to do this than—"

"Mr. Stark," Phil interrupts, talking over the other man, "I'm not wearing a holster because I'm not carrying a weapon, nor do I Intend to. And while my recovery period was longer than I would have liked, if I thought I wasn't ready to return to the field, then I wouldn't. If I thought I needed to carry a weapon, then I would bring one. Do you honestly think I'd put your safety or that of the Avengers or my fellow agents at risk for a power trip?"

"Well, no," Tony admits.

"Then this conversation is over. Suit up and head to the Quinjet, please."

Tony doesn't budge. "Okay, look. Neither of us are very good with this touchy-feely stuff, so we're going to make this quick. Like ripping off a band-aid. Bottom line: I'm not letting you go out there without something to protect yourself with."

"Your concern is noted," Phil says. He ducks his head. "And appreciated. But I'm afraid I'm not going to change my mind on this matter."

"And you don't think I can keep you here?"

"I _know_ that you can't keep me here. And so do you."

Tony grunts. "Just don't get shot or stabbed or anything, okay? Pepper will kill me."

* * *

"I thought you said you weren't bringing a weapon?" Tony says as they round up their prisoners and herd them into waiting S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles.

"And I didn't," Phil answers, trying to coordinate their exit.

"Okay, so what's that in your hand?" Tony asks.

Phil raises the gun in his hand, giving it a thoughtful look before turning his attention to Tony. "I found it."

"You found it."

"Yes."

"Okay, you know what? Fine. You 'found' it. Whatever, I'm going home."

* * *

"Did you 'find' that sword, too?" Tony asks at the end of a mission three weeks later.

"I found a guard using it very poorly. So I relieved him of it," Phil answers, passing the weapon to another agent.

"And you just decided to use it for yourself," Tony prods.

"I thought it should be used properly or not at all, so yes," Phil answers, wiping his hands on a handkerchief.

Tony sighs.

* * *

"How do you _keep doing_ this?" Tony demands, exasperated.

"Doing what, Mr. Stark?" Phil answers, preoccupied by making sure their prisoners are properly bound.

"_This_," Tony says, grabbing the agent's wrist and hoisting it up to eye level. There's an AK-47 in the agent's grasp, one that he most certainly didn't have on him when they'd arrived. "How do you keep doing it?"

Phil clucks his tongue thoughtfully. "I'm good at finding things."

"No. No, no. You don't just _find_ an AK-47, okay," Tony declares. "So what is it? Sold your soul to the devil? Black magic? That… thing that Hermione did with the bag to fit all their stuff in it?"

Phil offers him a perplexed look.

"If you tell me you haven't read Harry Potter, our friendship is over."

"I wish I'd known that years ago."

"Oh, funny. Seriously, where do you keep getting these weapons?"

"I've told you; I find them."

If anyone hears Tony's exasperated scream over the comm line, they don't say anything about it.

* * *

After those few incidents, Tony begins paying very close attention. From what he can tell, Phil won't touch a weapon outside of necessity. He doesn't train with them, he doesn't test anything that comes out of R&D, he's never seen in the gun range and flat out refuses to arm himself with anything prior to a mission. And yet, every mission they go on seems to end with Tony finding him with at least one weapon on hand; a gun, a dagger, a rifle, a katana, that one memorable time with the axe. But one incident stands out in particular.

"Oh, come on," Tony whines, propped up against a slab of concrete.

His helmet is off, his suit's got no power, he can taste blood in his mouth and, oh, look, there's something sticking out of his side that managed to pierce through the suit. Lovely. And to top it off, here's Phil Fucking Coulson suddenly crouched beside him with a weapon that makes the destroyer gun look like a pea shooter.

"Alright, Mr. Stark?" Phil asks him, reaching to check his pulse.

"Did you 'find' that one, too?" Tony asks instead, sucking in a sharp breath when the agent inspects the thing sticking out of his side.

"Mm. You'd think they'd have more than a coded entry door and ten armed guards protecting it, but you'd be wrong," Phil answers.

Tony listens as shots whiz by and watches lasers fire overhead as Phil calls in for an extraction. He's about to correct the agent and tell him it's not necessary, but his head's getting fuzzy and his vision's getting blurry and he wonders vaguely how difficult it's going to be to get all this blood out of his suit.

"Whuzzat thing even do?" Tony slurs.

"I'm not sure," Phil admits.

"Just seemed like a good idea… to take it?"

"I thought it might be useful."

"You dunno howta use it."

"No. But I suppose I'll find out. Or not. It really depends on how quickly back-up arrives."

"I don't understand you."

"I'm flattered, Mr. Stark. Excuse me a moment."

Either Phil is very good with guesswork or is insanely lucky, because he somehow manages to power up the giant, alien-looking piece of weaponry. It whirs and hums and hisses and Tony's not entirely certain that it won't detonate and kill them both. Phil seems fairly confident that it won't, because he hefts it onto his shoulder, takes aim over their protective slab of concrete and fires. The recoil nearly takes him off his feet and the detonation leaves Tony's ears ringing. The agent crouches beside him again, laying the weapon a few feet away.

"Now we know what it does."

Tony decides passing out has its merits.

* * *

"You _did_ briefly regain consciousness on the Quinjet," Phil informs him, sitting in the chair beside his bed the next day.

"I don't remember that," Tony admits.

"I didn't think so. Because you looked at me and said 'Oh god, oh god, I wish I didn't know you,'" Phil says.

"…I may still stand by that statement," Tony mumbles. "So! This seems a good a time as any to talk about your weird weapon fetish."

Phil drums his fingers along the arm of the chair. "To be quite honest, I don't care for them."

"Uh, really? Because the evidence says otherwise," Tony answers.

"All you need to understand, Mr. Stark, is that if you put a weapon in my hands, I _will_ use it," Phil tells him. "Which is why I prefer not to have one on me, because I can assure you that's not something you want."

Tony squints at him as something finally clicks into place. "You're not _allowed_ to have one on you, are you?"

Phil actually colors at that. "No. I'm not."

"Holy shit."

"There's a good reason for it."

"Holy _shit_."

"Which is why I won't be carrying one unless Fury signs off on it."

"What did you _do_?"

"I told you, Mr. Stark: If you put a weapon in my hands, _I will use it_."

"Okay, you're starting to freak me out a little."

"Good."

Tony doesn't bother with trying to get Phil to arm himself before missions anymore. From what he's seen, the guy's scary enough when he manages to find a weapon on his own. Actually giving him one? He doesn't even want to know.


	19. Readjusting (Capsicoul)

**A/N:** This chapter's got more explicit sex (Capsicoul) in it. It's a continuation of the de-aging scenario from Chapter 15, where Tony has returned to his appropriate age but is having some awkward moments around his two 'dads.'

* * *

To say that things have been awkward between Tony, Steve and Phil is something of an understatement. The process of getting Tony back to his appropriate age had taken a month and a half, during which time Phil and Steve had been the baby's primary minders, aside from Pepper. It's hardly surprising Tony's having a hard time trying to figure out where he stands with all of them now—six weeks of having your closest friends changing your dirty diapers will do that.

But even more perplexing is the fact that Tony seems to have kept some of the things from his time as an infant with him. Little things, at first, like the fact that he'll usually choose to sit by Phil and Steve on the sofa, or that when it's time for him to sleep, he'll walk to the room they'd had his crib in without thinking.

Then it starts to get worse.

* * *

"_Fuck_, right there," Phil pants, his hips lifting off the mattress.

They've been busy with work and with Tony, which means their sex life had basically come to a halt for weeks. So, being as thoughtful as he is, Steve had decided to surprise Phil. He surprised him with a blindfold, a pair of padded wrist cuffs, a bottle of lube and a special little something with four different speeds and five different pulse patterns that currently has his toes curling and his mouth uttering profanities that would make a sailor blush.

He can't see his partner, but he feels Steve run a possessive hand up his inner thigh and knows from the touch and the sudden shift to a different setting that Steve likes what he sees. He definitely knows Steve likes it when the other man leans over him and he feels the soldier's erection pushing against his thigh, hot and hard. The toy is dialed down to its lowest setting, teasing him.

"I can't decide if I'd like to make you come with the toy or if I'd rather wait until I'm inside you," Steve says, kissing his chest, his shoulder, his neck.

"You're not going to have a choice in another minute," Phil says breathily, biting his lower lip to stifle a moan.

"Mm, good point," Steve says kissing the corner of his mouth. "As much as I like watching you come all over yourself without me touching you… we'll save it for another time."

Phil shivers and waits patiently, trying to relax himself as Steve removes the toy. He's left tied to the headboard with the blindfold still in place, waiting for Steve to proceed. His breath sounds too loud as he feels the bed dip between his legs. Steve's hands slide up his thighs, pushing them apart, before the soldier hooks his arms beneath Phil's knees.

He's not quite as open as he usually is, but the excess lube makes up for that as Steve takes his time pushing in. As much as Steve wants it, he restrains himself and rocks his hips slowly, apparently doing his very best to drive Phil up a wall. The fact that Phil can't see him and has to rely on hearing alone just makes the situation all the more sensual. Every touch seems like it's magnified, like his body is ten times more sensitive than it usually is, which makes it very difficult to keep himself quiet.

"Have I mentioned how good you look when you're all tied down for me?" Steve asks, teeth nipping at the agent's throat.

"Once or twice," Phil answers, tugging briefly at his restraints. "You may have mentioned it."

"I thought about using the gag tonight, too," Steve tells him.

Phil is about to comment on that, but he's cut off when Steve presses their lips together. He parts his lips in anticipation and when Steve deepens the kiss, he mentally congratulates himself for learning to read the other man so well. Steve's especially worked up tonight, attacking his partner's mouth like it's something to be conquered and wringing eager moans out of the agent. Phil is very far from complaining about Steve's enthusiasm. There's a little more power behind his thrusts now, a little more force as he pulls away from their kiss.

"You know how much I like it when you wear it. The noises you let yourself make because you don't have to hold them back, worrying that someone might hear you," Steve recites as he snaps his hips. "But I want to hear you, Phil. I want to hear you moan and cry and beg like I know you want to. Can you do that for me?"

The thing is, Phil _does_ want to. And at this point, he doesn't care if Nick Fury himself happens to hear him because he knows how much Steve gets off on hearing him and he's going to try his damnedest to get the soldier as worked up as possible. So he informs him that yes, yes he can, and lets out the moan he's been holding in just to prove it. Steve groans, thrusting so hard that Phil probably would have been driven up against the headboard were it not for the bruising grip on his hips keeping him anchored.

_"I'm sorry to interrupt, Captain, but Mister Stark is on the line for you."_

"Can you tell him I'm busy?" Steve pants, not letting up one bit.

_"I'm afraid he says it's urgent, sir. He's requesting to speak to Agent Coulson."_

Steve slows his thrusts, letting out a disappointed huff of air. "Phil?"

"Put him on," Phil sighs.

_"Phil?"_ Tony asks. _"You there?"_

"Right here, Mr. Stark," Phil answers, trying to even out his tone so it doesn't sound like he was interrupted in the middle of being fucked senseless. "What's the emergency."

_"…I can't sleep."_

"Alright," Phil says patiently. He has to snap his mouth shut suddenly when Steve starts moving again, rolling his hips and thumbing the head of the agent's cock. To his credit, Phil only sounds the slightest bit strained when he speaks again. "Perhaps if you—"

_"Ineedyoutosingmethesong."_

"Wha—_AT_?" Phil asks, the end of the words nearly shouted as Steve delivers a series of hard, shallow thrusts.

_"I said… I need you to sing me the song. It's… look, I don't know, it's the only thing that helps me sleep now," _Tony admits, sounding uncomfortable about the whole thing.

"This…" Phil says. He swallows thickly, trying to regain control. "This isn't the best time, Mr. Stark."

_"I know I woke you and believe me, I don't want to do this anymore than you do but—"_

Phil bites down hard on his lower lip, trying to keep quiet, but Steve's lubed up his hand and is swiftly stroking him in time with his thrusts. He really can't help it if the moan trapped in his mouth is so loud that even behind his lips and over the line, Tony can hear it.

_"Oh my god, you two are fucking."_

"Mr. Stark—"

Steve catches him off guard, thrusting with just the right amount of force at just the right angle and he gasps loudly. His attempt to smother his noise only turns it into a loud whimper and he's not sure if he could possibly feel any more embarrassed by hearing himself make that kind of noise.

_"Oh my __**god**__, that's __**gross**__. Ugh!"_

It's not the way that Phil would have wanted it, but it gets Tony to hang up in an instant. It's probably a good thing, considering neither of them are particularly quiet after. Phil shouts when he comes and Steve, chasing his own release, fucks him like it's going out of style until he abruptly stills. A grunt few ragged thrusts and Steve's coming in him, groaning in satisfaction.

Phil's still catching his breath when Steve slowly pulls out and tugs the blindfold away. Steve looks as he always does after they've had sex; flushed, hair mussed and positively _glowing_. If Phil ever had any doubts about whether Steve was satisfied with their relationship, he only has to look at the slightly fuzzy, stupidly fond look his partner is giving him now.

"I think I liked you better when you were a shy virgin," Phil complains.

"No you didn't," Steve says with a laugh, kissing the corner of his mouth as he begins unclasping the restraints.

"No, I didn't," Phil agrees.

Steve sits him up and, as always, begins checking for injury. He knows he can get particularly enthusiastic and it's a constant worry of his that he'll hurt Phil and the agent won't tell him.

"How badly do you think we've traumatized Stark?" Phil asks as Steve rubs his wrists.

"No worse than he deserves," Steve snorts.

"I never took you as the exhibitionist type," Phil notes.

Steve coughs. "I guess I got a little carried away."

"Well… you did essentially expose him to the rough equivalent of walking in on your parents having sex."

"He interrupted. He said it was urgent. That wasn't urgent. What was urgent was what we were doing, since we haven't had a chance to be _urgent_ in over a month."

"Mm. I think we're going to have to talk about this."

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that."

* * *

The talk doesn't really happen, not the way they want it to. They don't really get beyond a polite exchange of apologies. So when Phil finds Tony sitting hunched over on the communal floor's sofa, he hangs back a moment. He'd been up doing late night paper work, long after everyone else has gone to sleep, and upon discovering his coffee mug was in need of refreshing, wandered down to the kitchen. He stands in the doorway, watching the other man intently for a moment before softly padding over.

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony's head shoots up and even in the dim light, Phil can see him wiping hurriedly at his eyes.

"Oh, uh… hey. Burning the candle at both ends, I see," Tony quips.

"It was a busy day," Phil answers with a shrug. He nods toward Tony. "I figured you'd be as exhausted as the others."

"Yeah, well, you know… all that adrenaline," Tony says, ducking his head as he wrings his hands.

Phil sets his mug down on the counter and walks around the sofa. He doesn't miss the other man's flinch as he takes a seat.

"Why don't you tell me what's bothering you," Phil suggests, leaning back in his seat.

"There's nothing bothering me, okay?" Tony says, sounding frustrated. "Get back to work."

"Mr. Stark," Phil says, his tone making it clear he's not going to budge.

"I just can't sleep!" Tony snaps. "There's nothing wrong with me, I just _can't sleep_. That's all. That's it. End of story."

Phil purses his lips thoughtfully. When Pepper returns from her business trip, it's clear they're all going to have to sit down for a long talk. Tony's de-aging seems to have had more of an effect on him than they'd thought. Phil and Steve had spent a lot of time with Baby Tony, and once he'd been returned to his rightful age, that had stopped. Apparently that had been something of a mistake.

"I understand you've been having difficulty adjusting," Phil says. "There's no shame in that."

Tony huffs a bitter laugh at that. "I called you in the middle of the night, while you and Steve were having sex, because I couldn't sleep without you singing to me. If that isn't the definition of 'fucked up,' then I don't know what is."

"Admittedly that was a bit… awkward for everyone," Phil says, clearing his throat. "But this is clearly something we all need to work on."

"No shit," Tony says.

"So, let's start by getting you to sleep," Phil says. "And when Pepper gets back, we'll all sit down and talk about how best to handle this. Alright?"

Tony nods slowly but doesn't look up. "I'm not going to be able to sleep, though. I've tried everything."

"Not even if I sing to you?" Phil asks.

Tony looks heartily embarrassed by the suggestion, but doesn't refuse. So Phil sings. It should probably be more uncomfortable than it is, but he's been doing it for almost two months already. And it's to help a friend with a problem for which he is partly responsible.

Gradually Tony begins to relax, and as he relaxes he tips closer and closer towards Phil. Eventually the genius is out like a light, his arms around Phil's middle and his face pressed to the agent's side. Phil is only humming by this point, so it's easy to hear someone shuffling behind the sofa. Steve leans over the back and presses a kiss to the side of his face.

"You got him to sleep?" the soldier whispers.

"Help me get him to bed?" Phil whispers back.

Steve agrees to that and circles the couch. They slowly disentangle Tony from Phil's side and with a gentleness that most people might not think him capable of, Steve lifts Tony from the sofa. The genius mumbles drowsily, stirring slightly as they begin walking towards the lift.

"Steve pummedown," Tony mumbles, even as he tightens his grip around the soldier's neck.

"It's alright," Steve assures him. "We've got you."

Tony grunts something that might be agreement before promptly drifting off again.

* * *

Tony and Steve like to spar once in a while. The way Steve sees it, there's more to iron Man than a guy in a suit and Tony Stark should be able to defend himself when his armored counterpart is not in the picture. Today, though, something is different. Usually Tony is full of taunts, begrudgingly going about the task of getting his ass handed to him when he runs his mouth instead of sticking to Steve's instructions. But today, there's none of that. Tony is following his directions to the letter, and more than that… he seems to be _enjoying_ it.

And now that he thinks of it, hadn't Tony been the one to suggest sparring today? Tony never suggests it. If anything, he does whatever he can to get out of it.

"Are you actually enjoying this?" Steve asks with a laugh.

"Yeah, so what if I am?" Tony snorts with a grin. "I haven't been able to do this in two months. Babies aren't great sparring partners, or didn't you notice?"

"Oh, I don't know," Steve says, catching a punch. "You had a pretty strong grip for a little guy."

"You've just got a soft spot for kids," Tony says, rolling his eyes. "I know your type; house with a yard, white picket fence, a dog, a couple of kids, a gorgeous wife… well, maybe not that last one, but the rest of it."

"And you think there's something wrong with that?" Steve asks, pinning Tony to the mat.

"No, it's just sickeningly Americana," Tony tells him, squirming to get loose. "You're—"

Steve is surprised when Tony suddenly cuts himself off with a laugh. His eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline when he understands what's just happened.

"Are you ticklish?" he asks.

"What? No," Tony insists.

"You're ticklish," Steve insists.

"Don't you do it," Tony warns him.

Steve grins. It turns out Tony isn't just ticklish, he's _very_ ticklish. Enough so that he's howling with laughter as Steve takes advantage of that fact. But Tony fights back. Steve briefly wonders what people would say if they saw Captain America and Iron Man having a tickle fight in the gym. The lighthearted moment comes to a screeching halt when Tony wheezes out a giggled plea for him to stop. But that's not what actually gets Steve to stop. It's what Tony calls him.

"Dad, stop!"

The very second it's out of Tony's mouth, they stop what they're doing and Steve, not thinking, drops the other man flat on his ass. They gawk at each other for a moment before Steve remembers himself.

"Sorry, Tony, I didn't mean to drop you," Steve says, holding a hand out.

"No. It's cool. It was, uh… yeah," Tony says, accepting his hand up.

They shuffle awkwardly before making their way to the locker room. Steve realizes suddenly that he might have just crossed the line. When Tony was a baby, he'd spent a lot of time doing typical baby play like tickling, blowing raspberries and peek-a-boo. But now Tony's an adult again. And it's awkward.

"Did you call me—"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Can we just forget it?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Okay then."

Awkward.

* * *

It all really comes to a head a few days later during a mission. Things are going fairly well, Phil thinks, as he steps out from his cover to get Natasha's back. That is, until he hears a startled cry over the comm line.

_"Dad, look out!"_

It's only as a robot to his right is blown to bits that he realizes Tony had been calling to him. Tony had just called him 'dad.' Later, he'll be angry with himself for allowing it to distract him as much as it had, because in the next three seconds there's an explosion and the sky is where the ground should be and the ground is where the sky should be.

He gets the wind knocked out of him when he hits the ground, but is fairly quick to recover. He gets to his feet when a sharp pain shoots through his side and he's sent staggering into a nearby wall. He hears another frantic cry of _"Dad!"_ as he presses a hand to his side and soon enough both Steve and Tony are in front of him.

Steve's hands are on him immediately and the pressure applied to his side has him seeing stars and his legs wobbling beneath him. The two Avengers lower him until he's sitting with his back propped against the wall and when he looks down, he sees the bleeding that Steve is desperately trying to stop, watches it spill between the fingers of his gloves, the two shades of red clashing terribly.

"I'm fine," Phil insists.

"You're anything but," Steve says. "Tony, I need you to get him out of here."

"You need to get back out there," Phil says. It's getting harder to breathe, though. "I'll be fine here. Just leave me a gun and—"

"Phil, shut your _goddamn_ mouth," Steve snaps. "Tony. Now. We'll manage without you."

"You got it," Tony says. "Be back in a flash."

Phil would protest more, but quite suddenly he's shooting upwards and apparently a rapid change in altitude and blood loss are not the best combination.

* * *

Phil laments the fact that he'd allowed himself to become distracted during their mission. This is mainly due to the fact that, even though he's completely fine, everyone is now treating him as though he's made of glass. It's a problem he ran into following Loki and it seems as though it's going to plague him for the rest of his life. Only Natasha and Clint spare him any mothering; Clint has declared the wound a scratch and Natasha hardly even acknowledges it at all. They've seen each other far worse too many times to molly coddle something this negligible.

Still, it's slowed him down a little and Bruce has more than once given him a firm talking to about how he's doing too much and he can't keep pulling stitches like this and how he'll get an infection and any number of things that Phil doesn't especially have time for. Apparently Nick trusts Bruce's word more than Phil's because the director puts him on light duty for the next two weeks, which does nothing to improve his mood.

"So," Tony says, approaching him where he sits on the sofa, "I don't suppose there's any chance you could forget what I called you, is there?"

"I think we're all going to have a very hard time forgetting that," Phil answers flatly.

Tony winces. Phil takes a deep breath.

"We need to talk," he says.

"Yeah. I think we do," Tony reluctantly admits, taking a seat on the sofa.

"First off: I believe I owe you an apology," Phil says.

Tony looks confused, so Phil explains.

"We weren't sure how long your de-aging would last. But that didn't mean we weren't going to take care of you as best we could," Phil says. He shifts in his seat. "I know about your history with Howard. By no means did I think that whatever time you spent as a child this time around could hope to correct how he treated you."

This is uncomfortable for both of them. This conversation requires that they put more of themselves out there than either of them would like. But it's the only way to fix this problem, isn't it?

"The thing is, I have… always wanted children of my own. But it just never happened," Phil tells him. "Shortly after you were de-aged, Steve found out and since then we've been… talking. About children. And I believe we both allowed ourselves to grow a little too close and a little too comfortable with our role as your caretakers. I had, vainly I think, hoped that giving you a better infancy this time around could help you heal. I allowed my desire to be a father to steer my actions and I can see now that I may have done more harm than good. I'm sorry, Tony."

Tony stares at him for a long while and Phil can honestly say he's not sure what the other man may have to say to him. He expects the usual flippancy, the trademark Tony Stark sarcasm to brush off any treading into emotional territory. He's surprised when he doesn't get it.

"I'm not going to say this situation isn't fucked up," Tony says. "Because, let's face it, it's _really_ fucked up."

"It certainly is," Phil answered.

"But as far as I'm concerned, you didn't do anything wrong and neither did Steve," Tony says. "You said yourself that you know about me and dear old dad. What you were doing was…"

Tony stops, scrubs a hand over his face and repositions himself on the couch.

"Look, if you and Steve want to adopt a kid, please, go for it. Adopt twenty kids. I will build an extra wing for you and him and fifty kids if you want them," Tony tells him emphatically. "You want to know why I'm having a hard time readjusting? Because it's pretty shitty going from having you and him back to a reality where I remember that I had Howard. Because I would have _killed_ to have you or him or both of you as a dad. So while this is about the weirdest thing I will ever say, you were a better father in two months than Howard was in two decades.

"Which is why if I'm having trouble leaving that behind, you can probably understand. I get that it's over and it has to stop and I think if we just… work on it a little, we can make that happen. We all just need to… let go."

"Right," Phil says simply. "I'm…"

For once Phil is speechless. How do you respond to something like that? Tony nudges him with his knee.

"Hey," Tony says. "You're an awesome dad. And if you do end up adopting, that kid is going to be the luckiest damn boy or girl in the world. Take it from me."

Phil shakes his head. This isn't how he had projected this conversation would go. It takes him a moment to get himself together, to swallow the lump that had annoyingly risen in his throat.

"Thank you. For everything you've just said," Phil says. "I don't know about your suggestion, but I'm glad to see I haven't given you any more issues to deal with."

"Well, I didn't say that," Tony snorts. "You're paying my therapy bills from now until forever."

"Says the billionaire."

"Don't you get smart with me."

"Watch your tone or I'll send you to your room."

"I'll tell Dad."

And if Steve walks in and wonders what's so funny, well, there's no harm letting him in on the joke. He's part of it, after all.


	20. Werebear (Clint & Phil & Team)

"Okay, who ate the last spring roll?" Tony asks with narrowed eyes.

"You made the mistake of leaving it unattended," Clint says with a Cheshire Cat grin.

"Fuck you," Tony says.

Clint dodges the empty take away container easily when Tony chucks it at his head. It seems the genius believes he's the culprit. Well, no sense in wasting a good opportunity to fuck with him. He rests his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

"Wasn't me. It was Phil," Clint informs him smoothly.

"What? Phil, you son of—… wait, where the hell is he?" Tony asks, looking around their gathering.

"I think he said something about going to bed," Steve says. The soldier pokes at his lo mein with a frown. "He's seemed kind of worn out lately."

"Indeed. The Son of Coul has not seemed quite himself these past weeks," Thor agrees.

"Well, he's certainly been sleeping enough," Bruce comments. "He told me he slept straight through his alarm last week. I advised him to see someone in medical, but he waved me off."

"Wait a minute," Tony says. He looks at Clint. "Is he the one who's been ninja-ing my snacks?"

"Yup," Clint answers, popping the 'p' on the end of the word.

"Son of a bitch," Tony says. "_How_?"

"Do you think he's… depressed or something?" Steve asks.

"He'll probably call it a cold," Natasha pipes up. "That's what he usually goes with."

"What exactly do you mean by _usually_?" Bruce presses.

Natasha and Clint share a look. Natasha shakes her head, her red curls bouncing, as Clint just smirks at her. It's clear the Russian doesn't want whatever's got Clint so amused to be let out.

"He's a werebear," Clint declares.

The group groans collectively and Clint has to dodge thrown cups and cutlery. He warns them to take him seriously, but they've moved on and won't pay him any mind. None of them seem to notice that Natasha appears quietly pleased by their reaction, save for Clint. He shrugs his shoulders, apparently washing his hands of the situation and they go back to quietly picking apart the spread before them.

* * *

Clint wanders into the kitchen a week later, only to find Steve holding a bag if frozen peas to Tony's face. Apparently Captain America had gone a little overboard during a training session.

"It's wasn't Steve," Tony declares, pushing the super soldier away. He groans, shifting the frozen vegetables. "It was Phil."

Clint doesn't bother holding back his amusement. "What did you do?" he asks with a laugh.

"I was just joking!" Tony grouses.

"To be fair, you kind of had it coming," Steve says with a snort. "Although, Phil's been a little, well… short lately."

"Grumpy as hell, you mean," Tony grumbles. "I remembered the werebear joke you made at dinner the other night and I found him eating a donut while he was doing paperwork. So I walked up behind him and squeezed his stomach and asked if he was packing on the pounds for the winter. He fucking _decked_ me."

"JARVIS, please tell me you have that recorded," Clint says, looking nothing short of delighted.

_"Of course, Agent Barton. Am I correct in assuming you'd like a copy?"_

"JARVIS, why do you always seem to cater to everyone else's needs before mine?" Tony asks, lowering the bag of peas.

Clint and Steve wince in sympathy. There's a beauty of a shiner and his eye's nearly swollen shut.

"He's sensitive about it. Hates putting on the weight," Clint declares. "Don't take it personally."

"I can't see out of my left eye," Tony says flatly.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have grabbed him," Clint says with a cluck of his tongue, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. "And maybe you should have listened to me."

Eventually Tony storms off, declaring his intention to get the agent back for his injury, and leaving Steve and Clint alone. Clint munches contentedly on his apple, but Steve looks somewhat conflicted. The archer knows what the soldier's going to do; he's going to wait another minute before trying to get Clint to tell him what's _really_ wrong with Phil. Because he's the captain and he has to look out for his team. Clint feels briefly guilty about that; he's been having fun teasing all of them, but Steve's likely been worrying all the while.

"Clint, I was wondering—"

"He's a werebear," Clint says, cutting him off.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest and stares Clint down. Clint patiently continues to chomp on his apple, waiting to see what Steve's going to say.

"You know, you're really good at lying," the captain declares. "Everything I'm getting off you says you're telling the truth."

"That's because I am," Clint says with a shrug.

"Clint," Steve sighs. "I know you think it's funny and if you want to keep the joke up, that's fine. But I need to watch out for my team. Is there something going on with Phil that I should be concerned about?"

"No," Clint says. "If you just leave him be he'll straighten himself out in a few weeks. It happens every winter."

"Okay. That's all I need to know," Steve says.

Watching him walk away, Clint shrugs and grabs another apple. It's not his fault if they don't believe him.

* * *

"Was today not a period of rest for the Son of Coul?" Thor inquires at dinner.

"Yeah, it was his day off," Tony says. "So what?"

"You do not find it strange that he has not left his quarters?" Thor presses.

"Sure he has," Tony answers. He pauses and looks around the table for confirmation. "…he has, right?"

"I haven't seen him since yesterday," Steve admits.

"JARVIS, did Phil sneak back into work?" Tony asks.

_"No, sir. Agent Coulson is currently asleep in his quarters."_

"Asleep?" Tony echoes. "It's only six. How long has he been asleep?"

_"Approximately twenty-three hours, sir."_

"You mean he's been in his room for twenty-three hours," Bruce corrects the AI.

_"No, sir. My records indicate that Agent Coulson first fell asleep yesterday at 6:18 p.m. and has not woken since."_

"He's fine," Clint says.

"Christ, that's not fine, Clint," Steve says, hurriedly pushing away from the table and leaving his seat.

The entire group does the same, rushing from the room and leaving Clint and Natasha at the table. The Russian gives him a particularly unamused look from across the table as she sips at her glass of water. Clint grabs a roll from the basket in the center.

"Oh, don't give me that look. You think it's funny, too," he says.

"It's funny now," Natasha says. "But I'm not explaining to Fury why Stark was bear food."

"Phil wouldn't do that," Clint snorts. He picks at the roll. "Would he?"

"You tell me, funny man," Natasha quips.

* * *

"From what I can tell… he's just sleeping," Bruce declares.

"Yeah, but he's not waking up," Tony points out.

It's a little awkward, Steve thinks, all of them standing in Phil's room. They're gathered in a huddle by the man's bed. Phil certainly looks as though he's just sleeping, curled up beneath the sheets with his knees tucked up to his chest. But he hasn't so much as stirred since they entered the room, not even during Bruce's examination. Steve lays a hand on the agent's shoulder over the sheets and crouches by Bruce beside the bed. He can feel each breath Phil takes and notes that they're steady and even. He doesn't appear to be in pain. In fact, Phil's expression is about as relaxed as Steve's ever seen it.

"He doesn't seem like anything's wrong with him," Steve says.

"We should endeavor to make sense of the matter by contacting Fury," Thor suggests. "Perhaps he has the answer we seek."

"At the very least we should tell him what's up," Tony says, scratching the back of his neck.

Contacting Fury leaves them more perplexed than before. The director informs them that there's nothing wrong with the agent, per se, and they should leave him alone. In fact, he suggests they lock the man in his quarters and wait until he emerges himself. When they demand that he tell them exactly what's going on, he suggests they talk to Clint and Natasha. He promptly hangs up and further attempts to contact him go unanswered.

* * *

Reluctantly, they take Fury's advice at Clint and Natasha's insistence. Though the two continually tell them not to worry, it's really all they _can_ do. The situation takes a turn for the worse when Pepper returns from a conference in California.

"Did any of you hear that noise?" Bruce asks, squinting.

"Yeah. It kinda sounded like a—"

"Tony of all the _stupid_ things you could do, this is by far the _absolute epitome of stupidity_," Pepper yells as she suddenly emerges from the lift, running out of it looking like she's scared out of her wits. "Are you trying to kill Phil? Or me?"

"What, what, what? Pep, calm down," Tony implores, holding his hands up defensively as Pepper looks near to having a panic attack. "What are you talking about?"

"I went to check on Phil," Pepper says. Clint groans as she catches her breath. "Why, for the love of god, did you put a _bear_ in his room? And where is he?"

"A bear!?" Steve exclaims, looking hurriedly between Pepper and Clint. His eyes widen suddenly as he stares at the archer, a growing look of horror making its way to his face. "…_no_."

"I told you I was telling the truth," Clint says. "None of you wanted to listen."

"I told him it was better if you didn't know," Natasha says with a shrug. "Too late for that now."

"Didn't know what?" Pepper asks.

Clint sighs loudly. "For the last time, he's a _werebear_. Pepper, he didn't mean whatever he did. He's not himself when he's like this and he's probably embarrassed that you had to see him that way."

They all stare silently at Clint and the archer can tell by the look in their eyes that they're currently trying to assess just when exactly he bought a pass for the crazy train. He looks to Natasha imploringly. The Russian woman looks thoughtful for a moment before walking towards the lift.

"Come on. Let's go see him and straighten this out," she says.

They follow her, all of them looking incredibly perplexed but wanting an answer all the same. When they reach Phil's floor, Natasha stops them, holding up a hand to halt their progress.

"Let Clint and I head the group," she tells them. "We've seen him like this before and he's not going to like the fact that we've brought all of you up here."

"We're not seriously going with this, are we?" Tony asks, looking to the group at large. No one answers him. "Okay, I guess we're seriously going with this."

The entire floor is darkened, with blinds drawn and lights dimmed. Unsurprisingly, they're lead to the bedroom and even though they've been told what to expect to find in there, none of them are exactly prepared when they open the door. Clint turns on the low light and they catch movement from the far corner. The entire bed—frame and all—is overturned and propped against the wall, the falling sheets creating something like a fort. They hear snorting and from beneath the structure, a massive grizzly bear emerges.

Catching sight of them, its lip curls up in a snarl and it raises itself on its hind legs. They unconsciously take a step backward as the bear threatens them with a deafening rawr. Clint doesn't seem phases at all, and instead walks towards the creature as it drops back down, still huffing and growling angrily.

"Phil, come on, knock it off," the archer demands.

The bear growls loudly, swiping at Clint with a massive paw. Clint dodges the fearsome claws and, to their great surprise, smacks the bear on the noise. The bear moans, his ears laid flat against his skull as he covers his muzzle with a paw.

"We talked about this," Natasha says, walking up beside Clint. "You knew you couldn't keep it a secret forever."

The bear backs away, scooting back towards the overturned bed, huffing in agitation. He seems torn between wanting to hide beneath the bed once again and staying out in the open with them.

"That is you Phil, isn't it?" Pepper asks, gaining enough courage to pull away from Tony's side. She looks back to the group before pointing. "Look. There, in his fur."

At Pepper's instruction, they do look. The bear, seeming to notice what they're looking for, shifts anxiously, growling and huffing and generally sounding quite displeased as he moves around. All his shifting allows them a good view of what Pepper's trying to get them to see. There are two spots where the thick brown fur will not grow in—a line along the bear's chest and a slightly larger line along the ridge of his back. He turns his back to them and proceeds to plop down and curl up, snuffling unhappily.

"Phil, if that's really you, it's okay," Steve says coaxingly, taking a step forward along with Pepper. "We're surprised, but it's not the strangest thing we've seen, right?"

"Hey, if we had a problem with people turning into big, hulking monsters, Bruce wouldn't be here, would he?" Tony asks with a shrug.

"You're a good friend, Tony," Bruce says flatly. He sighs and looks to the big, furry lump curled in the corner. "What I think Tony is trying to say is that we just wish you had felt comfortable telling us. You're hardly the strangest one in this bunch."

"It is a most impressive form," Thor says. "You should take pride in it."

"See? No reason to be embarrassed. Now stop being a baby," Clint says, prodding the bear's rump with the toe of his boot.

Phil lifts his head, snorting in agitation. But he gets to his feet and turns to face them. He hangs his head, making a low, guilty noise, but doesn't protest when Clint turns the overhead light all the way up so they can get a good look at him. He still shifts anxiously, crossing his front paws where he lies, much like Phil always crosses his arms in front of him. If they had any doubt left, it's quickly erased when the bear looks up at them with a pair of blue-grey eyes that couldn't really belong to anyone else but their resident agent.

"So," Tony says with a slow nod. "Werebear."

"Werebear it is," Steve agrees with an easy shrug.

If they had been any other group of people, this wouldn't have gone over so smoothly. Watching Phil apologetically nose at Pepper's hand when she draws near, Clint decides he's really, really glad they're not any other group of people.

* * *

It's another two weeks before they get the agent back. Phil smothers a low groan where he's curled up on the sofa. Steve offers him a sympathetic look when Clint comes over with antacids.

"Not an easy transition, then," Steve notes.

"It's like every bad hangover I've ever had all at once," Phil mumbles.

"Yeah, but it's kind of cool you can turn into a bear," Tony says. "I was thinking of making you our mascot."

"I get fat and grumpy and turn into an animal. There's nothing _cool_ about it, Mr. Stark," Phil says, making a face as he sits up and swallows the chalky antacids. He drops his head into his hands. "And if you do that, please remember that my threat to tase you still stands."

"You're not fat," Steve assures him. "You were pretty grumpy though."

"And sensitive. You get so sensitive, I swear it's like every emotion you don't have on the job comes pouring out," Clint says with a laugh. "Like right now and the fact that you're complaining about putting on a few pounds."

Clint's nearly in hysterics as Phil growls at him for the comment and promptly blushes at the noise he's made. The agent clears his throat, looking heartily embarrassed.

"It, uh… takes a while to fully wear off," he says.

"Whatever you say, Gentle Ben," Tony teases. "Also you owe me for all the snacks you stole when I wasn't looking."

Phil sighs heavily. He's never, ever, _ever_ going to live this down.


	21. Spelling (Phil & Jasper & Clint)

**A/N: **In my personal headcanon, Jasper loves animated/kids movies. I don't know why I decided on that, but it's adorable as heck so I kept it.

* * *

When it came to handling the Avengers, Phil had the utmost confidence in Jasper Sitwell. While recovering from the wounds dealt by Loki, he was asked by Fury who he thought best fit the bill for handling the assignment in his steed. The director had barely asked the whole question before Phil gave him his decision. Admittedly, it was a lot to put on the other man's shoulders but Jasper could handle it, he was sure. He had expected the man to be a little more stressed out with such a big assignment, but Jasper took nearly everything in stride. Except for one thing.

"I don't understand this," Jasper says, the second Phil opens his apartment door.

"I'm sorry?" Phil answers.

Jasper just stands there and stares at him, looking dead on his feet. Phil steps aside and motions for the other agent to step inside and have a seat. As he closes the door and watches Jasper sit heavily in a nearby chair, Phil decides against putting a pot of coffee on and puts a kettle on to boil instead. He shuffles to the living room after the younger agent and stiffly lowers himself into the chair opposite.

"Care to tell me what's bothering you?" Phil tries.

"Do you remember the process you had to go through to become an agent?" Jasper asks. "And how it included several written exams?"

Phil blows out a harsh breath. "That was a long time ago."

"For you, maybe," Jasper snorts.

Phil rolls his eyes but smiles indulgently. "Get to the point, Jasper."

"Did we give up on that recently?" Jasper asks him.

Phil quirks an eyebrow. "No. Why?"

"Because I'm wondering if any of the agents you oversee have any understanding of the concepts of basic grammar and spelling. Or proofreading," Jasper says pulling his briefcase onto his lap. "Look at some of these. _Look_."

Phil knows very well what he's going to be looking at, but it's clear Jasper's having a hard time of things so he's not going to deny him his chance to vent. He reaches for his reading glasses and looks over the files as they're handed to him. Unsurprisingly, the misspelled names leap right out at him. Shining examples like 'Steve Rodgers' and 'Agent Coulsen' and 'Clint Burton' make him wonder if perhaps he should have warned poor Jasper beforehand. Aside from this is the usual inability to distinguish between there/their/they're, you/you're and any other number of inaccuracies. He winces in sympathy.

"I mean… 'Steve Rodger'? Really? You can't correctly spell the name of a _national icon_?" Jasper says, shaking some of the files on his hand. "And this! _This_! Who the _fuck_ is 'Jarvis Sitwall'? _Are they fucking kidding me with this shit_?"

Phil hums sympathetically, letting Jasper continue on. The kettle cries shrilly from the kitchen, but Jasper continues to rant, regardless of the fact that Phil has risen to see to it. He pours two mugs of tea as he listen to the younger agent bemoan the poor spelling on the forms he's supposed to review and sign off on.

"And this is just today!" Jasper grinds out. Phil sets one of the steaming mugs down on a coaster on the coffee table sitting between them before reclaiming his own armchair. "Do you have any idea how much white out I go through in a given week? Look at this. _Look at it_."

He holds up his hands and Phil can see the numerous smears of correcting fluid on the younger agent's hands.

"Is proofreading too difficult a task? Does S.H.I.E.L.D. train these people to handle alien invasions but not how to write a report?" Jasper demands. "If you don't know how to spell someone name, just fucking _ask_. Don't throw out your best guess. It's just… It's just… What is this? No. Really. I want to know. _WHAT. IS. __**THIS**__?_"

Phil sips his tea quietly as Jasper leans forward and presses his face into his hands, pushing his glasses up to his forehead in the process. The older agent looks to the briefcase stuffed full of reports, knowing they're not even a fraction of what Jasper has on his plate today. It shouldn't be funny that the other man is having a mental breakdown over typos and misspelled names, but it's hard not to find it at least vaguely amusing. Of everything Jasper's had to deal with these past few months, this is the only thing that's managed to get to him.

"When was the last time you slept?" Phil asks.

"What's sleep?" Jasper grumbles.

"Jasper," Phil says in a warning tone.

"WHO THE FUCK DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO SPELL 'TONY STARK'? THAT ASSHOLE'S NAME IS EVERYWHERE. _EVERYWHERE_. HE MAKES SURE OF IT."

"Okay, you're going to have a nap," Phil says.

"I don't need a nap," Jasper snaps.

"Really? You're in my apartment screaming and nearly in tears over a few typos," Phil points out.

"It's not_ a few_. If it were _a few_ then I could deal with them," Jasper declares angrily. "This is the systematic destruction of the English language on my desk. Every day. All day. _I see it in my goddamn sleep_."

"Fine. Drink your tea and we'll go through them together," Phil says.

"You're not supposed to be working," Jasper reminds him testily.

"It's paperwork. I think I'll live," Phil snorts. "Besides, do you have any idea what it's like not being allowed even light duty? I could use a distraction, to be honest. You'll be doing me a favor."

Jasper begrudgingly drinks his tea as they proceed to go through the files, correcting whatever needs it as they review and sign off on them. They're talking throughout, but the younger agent's responses grow slower and slurred over time. Eventually it gets to the point where Jasper goes to finish off the contents of the mug, but instead peers suspiciously at the bottom, swaying in his seat.

"I thought I was just tired," Jasper declares. "But you fucking dosed me."

"Just go to sleep, Jasper," Phil says, not looking up from the file in his lap.

"No," Jasper says.

"I don't think you have much choice," Phil points out.

"I hate you," Jasper informs him. He closes his eyes with a sigh. "When're you coming back?"

"As soon as I can," Phil answers. He leans back in his chair and regards the younger agent slumped over in his, glasses sitting crookedly on his face. "You know, Director Fury asked me directly who I wanted to take my place while I recovered. You were my first choice."

"Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope," Jasper mumbles, chasing it with a brief giggle.

"Something like that," Phil agrees.

Maybe he'd spiked that tea just a wee bit too much. But then, Jasper never did respond well to drugs. When Phil hears gentle snoring, he rises from his seat and makes his way to the hall closet and retrieves a spare blanket. His left side twinges uncomfortably as he reaches for the blanket, but at least he can lift his arm above shoulder level these days. He walks back to the living room and moves the files from Jasper's lap to the coffee table. Phil had said that Jasper had been his first choice but really, Jasper had been his _only_ choice. Okay, so Phil maybe, probably has some trust and control issues that he should work on, but the point is that there is only one person he trusts to handle his job and that one person is currently passed out in an armchair in his living room.

Jasper doesn't stir as Phil puts his glasses aside and covers him with the blanket in his hands, but Phil wouldn't have expected him to. With how much Phil put in that tea, the younger agent will be out for at least several hours. He's going to give Fury a call to let him know what's going on, but before that he has a more important call to make.

"Barton," Phil barks, when he hears the call pick up, before the other man can even get a greeting in.

_"Uh, hey, boss. How's the recuperation going?"_

"Fine. I need you to do me a favor."

_"Shoot."_

"I need you to stop enlisting agents to purposely misspell names in their reports. You're driving Sitwell crazy."

_"…so you know about that, then."_

"Yes. You've had your fun, knock it off."

_"Sure. Is, uh… is he okay?"_

"He suffered a minor mental breakdown. I took care of it."

_"You mean you drugged him."_

"As I said, I took care of it."

_"Yeah. Right. You want me to bring some pizza and booze over later? I found a really nice camrip of ParaNorman."_

Phil sighs, but bites his tongue in regards to the archer's unabashed pirating. He glances at Jasper before answering.

"I'm sure he'd like that."


	22. Blowjobs (Capsicoul)

"You," Steve says, crowding Phil up against the wall of his office and tugging on the collar of the shorter man's shirt, "wore this on purpose."

"Well, if we're going to keep up this ruse, then we have to make it as convincing as possible," Phil answers. He smiles gently as he shrugs the soldier's hands off. "They'll be expecting you back."

Steve hums in agreement. "But first, let's get this off. I'll get your spare suit from the closet."

The captain knows by now that the agent keeps at least one change of clothes in his office at all times. In fact, he usually has two or three suits on hand. Given how their line of work often runs, it's not as crazy as it seems at face value. He selects one similar to what Phil had already been wearing and closes the closet just in time to see the shorter man pull the Captain America themed shirt off over his head.

They had all agreed that, in order for Phil to take on Parker and his team, it would be better to proceed as though he were any other agent. Which means leaving his relation to the Avengers out of it. Which means they've all had to pretend not to know each other, something which has been equally trying and amusing. The extremes both of them have gone to in order to keep up this ruse have been cause for a good deal of laughter in the privacy of the agent's apartment. This takes the cake, though. Steve grins as he slides over, laying the suit on the desk beside them.

"Let me help with that," he suggests, already working at the agent's belt before he has a chance to reply.

"Steve. I'm serious," Phil says, his tone warning.

"I know you're serious," Steve answers, spending far too much time tugging down the zipper on the agent's fly. "And we'll be back before they miss us, I promise."

"We don't have time—"

"We have time. The kids are preoccupied with my shield. Besides, it's not going to take that long for me to get you to come," Steve says, entirely sure of himself as he palms the agent through his slacks. He knows he's won when he mouths at the man's jawline and Phil, after some hesitation, gives in and bears his neck to the soldier. "Barely had a minute with you in weeks…"

"I know and I'm—don't leave any marks, please," Phil says, pressing into Steve's hand even as he gives the warning. "None above the collar line, that's the rule, remember?"

Steve makes a dissatisfied noise, but obeys the order and shifts his ministrations lower. He sucks a welt into the skin above his partner's collar bone and bites gently at the tender flesh as his fondling starts to get him somewhere. He presses a quick kiss to Phil's lips before dropping to his knees in one, smooth motion. Phil shivers as Steve tugs his pants and boxers down far enough so that his cock is freed, before the soldier takes him in hand and gently thumbs the head. The texture on his gloves has to feel strange, Steve thinks, but not bad if he's reading Phil correctly. The captain stares up from his position on the floor and smiles fondly when Phil pushes the cowl back from his face.

"No noise, now," he says, authority coloring his words. "That's an order."

Phil laughs breathily, threading his fingers through Steve's hair. "Sir, yes, sir."

He drags the tip of his tongue lightly up the underside of Phil's shaft. He knows they don't exactly have quite as much time as he says they do, but he can't help but take his time as he swirls his tongue along the tip before gently prodding the slit.

"What do you think they'd say if they walked in on us right now?" Steve asks him, pressing a kiss to the agent's lower abdomen as he gently fondles his balls.

Phil closes his eyes and groans quietly, working a chuckle out of Steve.

"You like that idea, don't you? Because you know it'll never happen, you're too careful for that, but it's still exciting doing this here because there's always the possibility, however miniscule, that someone _might_ catch us," Steve says, keeping his fist as loose as possible as he strokes his partner. He's barely touching Phil, really, because these gloves weren't exactly designed for handjobs. Maybe he should talk to Phil about a little _design input_. "Maybe you forget to lock the door one day and they find us like this; me on my knees with your hands in my hair while you fuck my face."

He feels Phil shivering as he turns his face, kissing from base to tip.

"Maybe they walk in on us when I have you bent over your desk; right when you're about to come and I'm asking you if you want my load," Steve says huskily.

He stares up at the shorter man, not breaking eye contact as he takes the head of his cock into his mouth and sucks gently. Steve watches Phil the entirety of their time together. He watches the way the agent's grip on the edge of his desk grows white knuckled, the way he bites on his lower lip to remain silent. There are certain things which, a year ago, he never would have picked as being things he never wanted to forget. But one of them is this, now. Not so much the fact that he's sucking his partner off in his office, but what it _does_ to Phil.

It's that moment when the man unwinds, gives in and lets Steve take control. It's when he closes his eyes and tips his head back, running a hand through Steve's hair as he rocks his hips. The fact of the matter is, Phil just _looks good_ like this. It's the fact that he gives himself over to Steve. It's not just the sex—which is great, don't get him wrong—it's the unspoken trust that comes with it. Phil's not a control freak exactly; in his personal life he's just very selective with who he trusts and what he trusts them with. But Phil surrenders control to him willingly, happily even.

Steve breaths through his nose as he bobs his head and grips the back of Phil's thighs. He knows he's gotten Phil worked up with that little bit of dirty talk—and has gotten himself worked up in the process—so it won't be much longer before he climaxes. And Steve's got an idea. He pulls off and grips the shaft in his hand. Then, pressing the underside of his tongue to the tip, begins swiping his tongue quickly from side to side. That gets Phil biting down hard on his lower lip, his brow creased in a deep frown as he trembles with the effort of keeping himself quiet.

"_Steve_," Phil groans.

That's all the warning he needs. He pulls back completely, pressing his free hand to Phil's hip. He opens his mouth wide and lets his tongue hang out, looking up at his partner invitingly. He hears a strangled noise from the agent and closes his eyes as warm, wet shots of come paint his face. It's hard not to smile when he hears Phil swear profusely under his breath as he bucks against Steve's hold, no doubt very pleased with the picture he's getting.

Steve swallows whatever hits his tongue before opening his eyes and looking up at his partner, licking his lips with a poster-worthy grin. Phil meets his gaze, faced flushed and chest heaving.

"I am definitely," Phil pants with a faint smile, "getting you back for this tonight."

"I'll look forward to it," Steve answers.

Phil does get him back that night—twice, in fact—and Steve decides that if the agent is going to get him back like this, then maybe he should jump him at work more often. Lying on the bed as he catches his breath, he looks over at his partner who is wearing a look smug enough to make Steve want to kiss it off his face.

"Hey," he says. "Do you think I could fit under your desk?"

"I could fill out a requisition form for a bigger desk," Phil says without missing a beat.

"I think you deserve a bigger desk," Steve agrees seriously.

"I'll fill out a requisition form for a bigger desk," Phil decides.

Steve smiles as he leans over to kiss the other man and can't help but wonder just how well Phil would be able to save face if someone were to walk into his office while Steve is under the desk. Well, he decides, there's really only one way to find out.


	23. Scars (Peter & Phil)

Peter is naturally curious and sometimes oblivious, a combination that has gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. It's not that he has a complete lack of respect for other people's boundaries, it's just that sometimes he just _has to know_. This is one of those situations where he just _has to know_. It starts when Taskmaster takes over the school, incapacitates Coulson and strings him up over a vat of acid in nothing but his tighty whities.

It's not until after the day is saved that Peter stops to think about it, but the scar had been pretty hard to miss. It's not like he hadn't expected an agent of Coulson's caliber to have some scars—they've all got their fair share in this line of work—but this one puts any others Peter's seen to shame. So, of course, he has to know what it's from.

"So what's that scar from?"

Peter doesn't flinch at the flat, unamused look he gets from their acting principle. He's used to them by now. He points insistently at the left side of the man's chest.

"That one. That really big one. Where'd you get it?" Peter asks.

"I heard you the first time, Parker," Phil says, looking back to the papers on his desk.

"So… spill. I mean, come on, don't tell me you've been totally badass behind our backs and you're not gonna let us know about it," Peter says.

"It's entirely none of your business," Phil says.

The man's tone makes Peter pause. "Is it something personal?"

"Yes. It is."

"Oh."

"Can I help you with something else, Parker?"

"No, uh… that's all I wanted to know about."

"Then I'll see you in detention after school."

"Wait, _what_?"

"You're five minutes late for algebra. Detention. Goodbye, Mr. Parker."

Peter sighs and shoulders his backpack and makes certain to slam the door on his way out.

* * *

"I don't know," Luke says with a shrug, filling his cereal bowl.

"I saw one on his back," Sam says, grabbing a handful from the box and cramming it in his mouth. "Big one."

"Uh, do I want to know how you happened to see this?" Peter asks.

"Hey, I just happened to walk in on him taking his shirt off in the locker room, you and Ava are the ones who saw him in his undies. You've got no room to talk, webhead," Sam declares.

"It's not something I chose to see," Peter tells him. "In fact, I'd like to _un_-see it, but there's no brain bleach handy."

"But none of us know where either of them came from," Luke points out.

"You guys have been with S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than I have," Peter tells him. "I was hoping you'd know something."

Luke shakes his head. "Sorry, man."

"He said it was personal. Got kind of grumpy when I asked him," Peter says.

"You mean grumpier than usual," Sam says as he cracks an egg in the pan on the stove top.

"Well, yeah."

"Maybe it's embarrassing or something," Luke says with a shrug. "Or maybe it was traumatizing. You guys said both scars are pretty big, right?"

"Huge. Like this big," Sam says, holding up his hands to show them.

"I think the one I saw was a little smaller than that," Peter informs them.

"It sounds as though you're describing exit and entry wounds," Danny says as he enters the kitchen, stopping at the refrigerator to grab some yogurt. He sits down at the table beside Peter and shakes some granola into his cup. "Two scars located in nearly symmetrical locations, one slightly larger than the other. It sounds like a stab wound."

"I might back you up on that if it weren't for the fact that no, no way, no how," Peter says. "First of all, what the hell would he have been stabbed with that was that big? Secondly, uh, what was that second point? Oh yeah: _he'd be dead_."

"It was just a suggestion," Danny says gently.

"Guys, I think we're overlooking a very real possibility with Danny's theory," Same says seriously. He looks around conspiratorially and drops his voice to a loud whisper. "What if he's a zombie?"

The other three boys groan.

"I'm serious! What if whatever caused those scars killed him and Fury used some freaky voodoo to reanimate the guy's corpse to do his bidding?" Sam asks them, frying the egg in the pan.

"Not that I'd put it past Fury, but do you even hear yourself right now?" Luke asks.

"Fine. Don't believe me. But we'll see who's laughing when the zombie apocalypse breaks out," Sam huffs.

"Ava! Hey! C'mere!" Peter calls as he sees the young woman walk by the kitchen.

Ava backtracks and stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. "Make it quick, I'm heading to MJ's to study."

"Okay, well we just wanted—… wait, since when do you and MJ study together?" Peter asks suspiciously.

"Since none-of-your-business, that's when," Ava says, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

"_What_?"

"Do you know where Coulson got those big scars?"

Ava looks slightly less annoyed by the question and more uncomfortable. It's not exactly the response Peter had been anticipating, but it does tell him one thing: she knows something.

"Look, just leave it alone, okay?" she says, grabbing her jacket from the coat rack. "We're not supposed to know about it."

"But you _do_ know about it," Peter declares, following her from the kitchen with the rest of the team in tow.

"Yeah. I found out about it and I promised not to say anything," Ava says, grabbing her books from the table in the hall. "It's personal. Coulson didn't even like the fact that I knew, so he's definitely not going to like it if _you_ know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter asks, eyes narrowed.

"Your eggs are burning," Ava declares as she walks out the front door.

Sam runs screaming back to the kitchen, desperate to salvage their breakfast, with Danny and Luke running after him. Peter is left alone in the hallway, frowning at the front door. With an answer like that, he definitely _has to know_.

* * *

Months pass. Peter asks just about anyone he can think of, but no one will give him any answers. Fury won't tell him. Captain America won't tell him. Hawkeye won't tell him. Everyone he asks seems to have the same reaction, which is to look uncomfortable—Captain America has no business looking like a kicked puppy—and promptly tell him that it's none of his business and that he should drop it. That is, until he asks Iron Man.

"Yeah, I heard you've been asking around," Tony says, strolling through the Tower. "Didn't Phil say he didn't want you to know?"

"Why is he _Phil_?" Peter asks.

"We've done stuff," Tony says with a shrug.

Peter makes a face.

"Not that stuff."

"Oh, okay. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just figured, you know… with Miss Potts…"

"She'd be down for it if Steve wasn't the monogamous type. We're working on it, but Captain Spangles is a tight ass when it comes to sharing our favorite agent."

"What."

"Oops."

"This is more than I ever wanted to know about any of you."

"Welcome to 'Reveal Phil Coulson's Secrets' Night at la casa de Stark," Tony says with his arms outstretched. "He's being a stick in the mud about this anyway. It's something you kids should know. So follow me and I'll show you just how he got those scars."

Peter is feeling more uncomfortable than any one person should be by this point, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Tony leads him to a computer and digs around until he finds what looks like an encrypted video file. Tony plays it and sits back, watching Peter's expression throughout. When the video has finished playing, Tony leans back against the counter with his hands in his pockets and says,

"That's why he's 'Phil.'"

* * *

"Come in."

It's after school has let out, after the clubs have gone home and practice is over for their sports teams. Peter knew he'd find Phil still in his office, though. So he'd knocked and Phil had answered and he'd stepped inside and taken a seat. Phil doesn't seem to have a problem with the fact that Peter has been sitting in the chair in front of his desk in silence for the past five minutes.

"Could we talk?" Peter asks suddenly.

Phil looks up from the papers before him. He studies Peter briefly before glancing at his watch and, apparently reaching a conclusion, begins packing up papers and files in his briefcase.

"I have to make sure the school is cleared out and speak to Stan before I leave for the night," Phil tells him as he rises. He nods towards the door. "Let's take a walk."

Phil ushers Peter out of the office, douses the lights and locks the door behind them. Midtown High always looks creepy to Peter when it's empty and now is no exception. It's just that he feels even more out of place walking silently beside their acting principal.

"So I hear you've been asking around about the subject which I told you was personal and entirely none of your business," Phil says, opening the conversation.

Peter winces. "Uh… yeah."

"Let me guess: Stark showed you the video," Phil deduces.

"Yeah, actually. How did you know?"

"How do you think Miss Ayala found out?" Phil counters. He shakes his head. "I'd have preferred if you hadn't found out about it, but it can't be helped now. While your teammate kept her promise to remain silent on the matter, I know I won't be getting any such promise from you."

"No. No, if you don't want me to tell, I won't," Peter says insistently.

Phil looks to the teen with obvious curiosity.

"I didn't really understand what I was looking for. And now that I know where those scars came from, I can understand why you don't want to talk about it," Peter says slowly, staring at his feet as they walk. "But I mean, you never talk about yourself or anything."

"I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Parker, I'm not supposed to talk about myself," Phil says, looking amused by the implication. "And since when do you want to know anything about me?"

"I'm just saying, none of us know _anything_ about you. You're a total mystery," Peter says. "You're supposed to be part of our team and I didn't even know you were hooking up with Captain Am—… mmmm… oh… I wasn't supposed to say that."

Peter swallows thickly as Phil's expression turns sour.

"I just got Tony in a lot of trouble, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Shit."

Peter fidgets uncomfortably while they walk, knowing this situation isn't going to be pretty. They stop at the front doors to the school and Peter does everything he can to avoid eye contact.

"So, I guess what I originally came here to say is that… I'm sorry I snooped. I shouldn't have," Peter says, blowing out a harsh breath. "Are you, y'know, okay and everything?"

Phil sighs heavily. "Have I ever given you any inclination that I _wasn't_ alright?"

"No, but you can be a _little_ hard to read," Peter tells him. "Seriously. Is 'agent' just your personality or something?"

"Yes," Phil answers with a straight face.

"Yeah, okay," Peter sighs. Of course, not like he expected anything else. "Do you think I could ask you something though? Because there's one thing about this that's not clear to me. And if you don't want to answer it, I promise this time I won't try to find out on my own."

"Alright," Phil answers reluctantly.

"Tony showed me the security footage. I saw Loki stab you and I saw Fury get to you and I watched you…"

Peter makes a vague, uncomfortable hand motion. It feels too strange, too out of place to say that he'd watched Phil die. He had, though, and remembering it still makes him feel a little… disturbed. Especially when the man is standing right in front of him.

"And anyway… How did you live?" Peter asks.

"With no little thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D. medical, a transfusion of Captain Rogers' blood and a recovery period long enough to be considered nearly unbearable," Phil recites cleanly. He looks at Peter and after a moment takes a slow, deep breath, and when he lets it out, Peter sees his shoulders drop just a fraction. "You say you don't know anything about me. My name is Phillip James Coulson. I was born in Boston, Massachusetts on July 8th, 1964, my friends called me PJ and I routinely had my ass handed to me because I picked fights with bullies twice my size."

Peter blinks dumbly. He'd learned more about the man in the span of five seconds than he had in the entirety of their association.

"About a year and half ago, I got lucky. I died a total of four times thanks to the stunt I pulled and not a day goes by that I'm not amazed to be standing here. I hurt people in the process and I find that some of those relationships still aren't fully healed," Phil explains. "The reason I preferred to keep it quiet is because it's something that's painful for me to have to look back on, made more painful by the fact that most people seem to consider it brave or heroic."

"But it was," Peter responds with raised eyebrows.

"No. It wasn't. It was foolish and desperate and even though I'd do it again in a heartbeat, there were so many ramifications that I never saw coming," Phil corrects him. "I did what I had to because it was the only option I had left. Don't think of it as being anything more than me doing my job and certainly don't ever let me catch you doing anything that stupid. I mean it, Parker."

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but closes it just as quickly. He thinks the agent is downplaying his actions or not giving himself enough credit, but really, maybe Phil doesn't find it heroic for the simple fact that he doesn't want to be a hero. And maybe doing things which hurt the people closest to you make you feel more like a jerk than anything else, regardless of your intention. Maybe Phil just wants to be Agent Coulson and _just_ Agent Coulson, not the guy whose death united the Avengers.

"Okay," he says instead. "I think I get it, now."

Phil gives him an appraising look, but must be satisfied with what he finds because he just nods and looks out the front door.

"You should be getting home. It'll be dark soon," Phil notes.

"Yeah. Because I really have to worry about walking home in the dark," Peter snorts.

Phil gives him a stern look. "You might not have to worry, but I'm sure your aunt will."

"Right," Peter says with a wince.

"Let me talk to Stan and I'll give you a ride home," Phil decides. "We'll tell her I held you after to talk about your science fair project and lost track of time."

"Thanks," Peter says, trailing behind him. "Well, since we had a bonding moment… can I call you PJ?"

"Don't push it, Parker."

"So 'no' then."

"You're two seconds from walking home."

"Hey, you're the one Aunt May'll be angry with. I'm fine with walking home."

"_Parker_."

Sometimes, Peter reflects as he dodges a slap to the head, it's best to let secrets remain secret. And sometimes you'll find that the most extraordinary people often come in the most ordinary packages.


	24. Sentiment (MariaJasper)

"Sir, with all due respect, this is hardly necessary," Maria says.

"I agree with Deputy Director Hill's sentiment, sir," Jasper affirms.

Nick looks between the two agents standing before his desk and resists the urge to sigh. The Battle of new York—apparently that's what people are calling it—had occurred two days prior and he knows for a fact that neither of them had caught more than a ten minute cat nap in that time. They're fatigued in more ways than one, the exhaustion of sleeplessness and grief and stress combined to give them both a haggard look.

"You," Nick says, pointing at Maria, "are still dealing with a head injury. I went against my better judgment and refrained from putting you on medical leave because I couldn't _afford_ to put you on medical leave. But now that the cleanup is sufficiently underway we can ease up a bit. So go home, take a proper shower, get some rest, take tomorrow off and come in the day after."

"I think I can speak on behalf of Agent Sitwell as well as myself when I say that I don't require a day off," Maria informs him tersely. "I was cleared for duty by medical and what I've been told is a minor concussion hasn't impaired my ability to perform my duties in any way."

"I'd prefer to remain on duty until all Chitauri weaponry has been accounted for," Jasper backs her up. "Just because the initial threat has passed doesn't mean we're out of danger, which means that due to our clearance levels we're both required to be on duty in the event of any further incidents."

Nick studies them both for a brief moment, taking in tired eyes but tall, steadfast postures. They're not going to leave short of him suspending both of them, which, frankly, he's not above doing. But at a time like this, the last thing he needs to be doing is sowing any further seeds of animosity. So he'll take a more direct approach. He leans back in his seat, the leather creaking softly in the otherwise quiet office, and folds his hands in his lap.

"We all know that when it comes to the death of a fellow agent in the line of duty, S.H.I.E.L.D. does not allow for bereavement leave," Nick explains. He pauses for the length of several heartbeats to let that sink in before continuing. "Deputy Director Hill, you are overdue for medical leave. Due to the nature of your injury, you will not be allowed to operate a vehicle yourself. Therefore, Agent Sitwell you are to escort Hill back to her residence and ensure that she remains there for the duration of time we had discussed previously. Have I made myself clear?"

It's apparent by the unhappy look they both share that, yes, he's made himself abundantly clear. As he dismisses them from his office, he watches them go and waits until the door has shut behind them before resting his head in one of his hands. He's tired in many of the same way they are, but there's no time to grieve.

He's got work to do.

* * *

Maria really wishes that Jasper hadn't insisted on driving… but Jasper had insisted on driving. And really, she'd been too tired to argue for once, so she'd just followed him to one of their black, uniform SUVs and had slipped into the passenger seat. Their ride is surprisingly silent; 'surprisingly' because they're usually full of piss and vinegar when it comes to each other.

It stems back some ten years or so, when she was a new recruit and he was a Junior Agent. He'd asked her out to dinner and being young, ambitious and too used to people refusing to take her seriously as a member of the 'fairer sex,' she'd rejected him outright. To be fair, she had rejected _all_ of her suitors at the time and for many years after. You don't make Deputy Director by age thirty through loss of focus or lack of determination and for her that was the very definition of a relationship. Not to mention the prospect of fraternization; she'd heard enough rumors that she'd slept her way to the top _without_ any of that, thank you.

Still, Jasper had seemed to take in stride, which is how all this had started. Over the years it had developed into teasing and prodding and generally taking shots at one another any chance they could get. Some days it was very nearly flirting, others she went home wondering just how many of the things he'd said he actually meant. Just as she wondered if she'd meant any of the things she'd said to him. That was their dynamic. That was what worked and she'd grown used to it over the years. In fact, maybe she'd even grown comfortable with it.

But there is none of that now. Jasper's gaze remains just focused enough on the road in front of them to get them safely where they're going, but even a quick glance tells her his mind is miles away. He's always one for a good laugh, but she doesn't think she's seen him crack anything even remotely resembling a smile in the past three days. Not that he's had any reason to, it's just that it looks so out of place on him, that complete lack of good humor.

"Let me bring your bag up," he offers.

"Bring yours with it," she tells him.

He squints at her, trying to figure her out, she knows.

"If you're anywhere near as exhausted as I am, then I don't think the citizens of New York will thank me for letting you try to drive back to your apartment," she clarifies. "You've got things to change into in your duffle. I've got a shower and a pull-out sofa bed. I think we can stand each other's company for one day."

She knows Jasper and Phil live in the same apartment building. It's better if he thinks she's asking him to stay for some reason other than the fact that letting him go back there tonight is a bad idea. To be honest, she's fairly certain he knows what she's up to, but if he does, he doesn't say anything. It's easier if they both lie a little.

"You're sure," he says to clarify, weighing the car keys in his hand.

"I'm sure I don't want to explain to Fury why you fell asleep at the wheel and killed half a dozen people," Maria says, opening the door and sliding out of her seat.

"You're too kind," he responds flatly, grabbing both their duffels.

* * *

Maria lies in bed, hands folded over her stomach as she stares at the ceiling and counts the ticks of the clock on the bedside table. She should be sleeping. She wants to sleep. Instead, she replays the events of the past few hours.

They'd both showered, quickly, economically. Jasper had thought to order take away while she was in the shower from some place that was actually still open despite the chaos of the past few days. It wasn't world class by any means, but she didn't have anything in her apartment to make a meal of, so neither of them were complaining. They'd both been quiet until Jasper had snorted and asked what it was about the agents considered to be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best that equated to bare cupboards and empty refrigerators, because despite being an excellent cook, Phil's kitchen often looked precisely like hers.

But any humor to be found in the observation was gone in an instant and she'd found the smiles that had crept up on them had vanished as though they'd never been there in the first place. When the words "I'm sorry" had left her lips, she found that she really did mean them but that they didn't solve or change anything. They hadn't spoken after that aside from bidding each other goodnight.

So she lies in bed now and thinks of Jasper and thinks of Phil. There's just so much _sentiment_ involved and it's frustrating. She hadn't planned on getting attached—to anyone. What right did any of them have to wound her this way? She had tried to maintain professional distance and despite her best efforts some of them had wormed their way in anyway. That's the problem with forming an attachment; it just leads to pain and distraction.

If she had any say in it, she wouldn't be thinking of the way Phil's eyes had always crinkled when he smiled and feeling a lump rise in her throat because of it. She wouldn't be wondering if Jasper is asleep or if he's thinking about the same things she is. She wouldn't be _worried_ that he's thinking of the same things she is. And if she had any say in it, she wouldn't feel the need to leave her bed and creep silently to the living room.

But she doesn't have any say in it, so she does all of those things.

Maria finds that Jasper is in much the same position as she'd been. He's lying on his back, hands folded over his stomach, but his eyes are closed. In the dim light, she can see what looks like a frown on his face as she draws closer. He hears her, because he bolts upright quite suddenly, hand flying towards the sidearm resting on the arm of the sofa and hovering there uncertainly until he sees that it's only her.

"Do you need something?" Jasper asks.

She knows he's thinking of the bump she took to the head. "No. Go back to sleep."

He slowly lies back as she climbs onto the sofa bed. There is no look of suspicion, no questions asked as they settle in side by side. They lie there in the stillness, in the silence, saying nothing with their arms at their sides as they stare upward at the ceiling. They're close enough that their shoulders are touching and it's really not all that much effort to shift her hand in the space between them until her fingers brush his.

Wordlessly he spreads his fingers, making space for hers between them. Nothing is spoken but everything is understood. There will be time for words in the morning when they wake, time for truths in the harsh light of day, but for now there is only the still of the night and her hand on his.

It's enough.

* * *

They're still tentatively exploring a relationship one month later when Nick reveals that Phil is not, in fact, quite as dead as he'd lead them to believe. The Avengers will have to be notified, but he'd decided to let the two of them know first. Their car ride to the hospital is filled with angry words, most of which detail getting the Director back for daring to lie to them.

Phil is asleep when they arrive but wakes not long after. At the sight of the two of them together, he smiles blearily, his eyes crinkling fondly and Maria has to fight very hard to ignore the way that makes her chest constrict.

"Do you remember?" Phil asks Jasper, his voice a breathy rasp. "I said at the rate you were going… I'd die… before you two got together."

"Real funny, Chuckles," Jasper says, rolling his eyes. "Yuck it up."

"Too soon?" Phil asks.

"Is there a rule for how soon you can make jokes about your own death?" Maria wonders aloud.

None of them are quite sure.

Phil wears down quickly, but they decide to stay. Or they're afraid to leave. Maria thinks it might be the second one, but again, it's easier to lie to themselves a little.

"So," Jasper says quietly, after some time has passed. "Phil's alive."

"That does appear to be the case," Maria responds, looking to the man asleep in the hospital bed before them.

"Does that mean you're breaking up with me?" Jasper asks with a slow grin.

She scowls at him. It's not as though they'd gotten together _because_ of Phil… but that had been part of it. Because he'd died and she'd realized that there were things she didn't want to miss out on, Jasper being one of them. Their lives were too uncertain to push away the things they might be. She kicks his ankle.

"Like you could get away that easily."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

It's far from perfect, what they have, but she's taken off running and she's got no intention of looking back.


	25. Magical Me (Capsicoul HP x-over)

_"Confringo!"_

Steve had been having a not-so-great day. Their monster of the week was something like a giant tortoise but instead of a shell, it possessed a gelatinous dome upon its back. Unfortunately, it seemed to be collecting things to stuff inside the dome, people included. Attacks of any kind proved to be useless; bullets bounced off, missiles were absorbed, lasers fizzled out. Then the Hulk tried to punch it… and had gotten sucked in. Trying to extract the Hulk meant that _all_ of them had been sucked in.

And just when Steve was sure that they might not be able to force their way out—as Tony's propulsions systems got all gummed up by green goo and they were steadily losing the fight to hold their breaths—there was Phil. There was Phil pulling a stick out of his jacket and pointing it at the goo turtle and shouting something.

Then there was an explosion and that's why he finds himself sitting beside his teammates on the street as goo rains down on them. They stare at Phil and Phil stares at them, tapping the stick in the palm of his hand. Tony lifts his faceplate to peer suspiciously at the agent.

"Did I just hear you—?"

"Yes, Mr. Stark."

"How…?"

"I believe everything will be explained momentarily," Phil answers, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

They stare collectively as the space beside the agent which had formerly been vacant suddenly isn't. Instead, there are two men standing there—one with dark, flyaway hair and glasses, and the other tall and slim with flaming red hair. Phil dips his head in greeting to the newcomers, as though people popping into existence is an everyday occurrence for him.

"And here I was just expecting an owl from the Ministry," Phil says, handing the stick over to the red-headed man.

"These are special circumstances. So we thought we'd handle the matter personally," the dark-haired man says. He grins and holds a hand out. "How've you been, Phil?"

"Very well, thank you," Phil answers. "How are the children?"

"Jealous because James will be heading to Hogwarts next year," the red-headed man snorts. "It's all they ever talk about, as though the age of entry weren't in place for hundreds of years before they were born. It's madness is what it is, parenthood."

"Uh, excuse me?" Tony pipes up, wading through the piles of goo in various stages of melting. "What the fuck is going on? Who's the Harry Potter cosplayer?"

The dark-haired man smiles in a way that looks as though someone has tread on his foot and he just doesn't want to have to say anything about it. The red-headed man just looks amused. Phil sighs deeply and gestures to their two guests.

"Harry Potter and Ron Weasley," he says. He gestures to all of them. "The Avengers."

There is an awkward moment of silence.

"Yes, like from the books," Phil says before any of them can say a word.

"Were there hallucinogens in that goo?" Bruce wants to know, looking dubiously at the bits of it still clinging to all of them while trying to keep his pants up.

Steve frowns. "Phil, what's going on here?"

"I'm being detained by wizards for improper use of magic," Phil answers. "But perhaps we could discuss this on the Helicarrier."

* * *

"You're a wizard, Hogwarts is real, Harry Motherfucking Potter is real, magic is real and _you're a wizard_," Tony exclaims, looking something between amazed and pissed off.

"_Was_ a wizard," Phil corrects him. "Which is why we're having this discussion in the first place."

From what they'd explained, Steve has come to understand that all of those things are, in fact, real. The books they all know of were written as a way of making it easier for modern day witches and wizards to get around without being questioned. Because with the success of the books and the movies, no one's going to question someone walking the streets in robes and a witch's hat, are they? It's clever, he has to admit, if not shocking. More shocking is the fact that Phil is apparently a part of this world. Or had been, anyway.

"I left the wizarding world following the Battle of Hogwarts in '98. I wanted to do more and I didn't see a place for myself in that life where I could," Phil explains. "So I renounced my heritage, had my wand snapped upon my exit, swore an oath not to use magic or reveal anything I knew to Muggles and joined S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I'm still having a hard time swallowing this," Clint says, rubbing at his eyes. "I've known you for years."

"Understandable," Phil says with a small shrug. "But I didn't want you to know. So you didn't. I'm a half-blood, so returning to a life without magic wasn't quite as difficult as I would have thought."

"Doesn't America have its own wizarding community, though?" Steve wants to know. "I mean, why did you have to go all the way to England?"

It's only then that Phil begins to look uncomfortable. "It's not so much that I had to. My mother is British, and was a witch of some… notability. She and my father had separated and I was living in England with her when I was eleven, so my letter naturally came from Hogwarts, despite the fact that I was born and had spent most of my life in America."

"They don't know who your mum is?" Ron questions, eyebrows raised.

"No," Phil answers shortly.

"Why, who's your mother?" Natasha asks, leaning forward in his seat.

"That's not important right now," Phil says dismissively. "What _is_ important is that—"

"You used fucking _magic_?" Fury demands, striding into the conference room. "I told you not to use Spello-tape on that thing. You're lucky the spell actually worked and didn't leave a pile of goddamn ashes where you used to be."

"I didn't have much choice," Phil says evenly. He makes a gesture towards everyone seated at the table. "You would have preferred that I allowed them to run out of air?"

Fury makes a thoroughly displeased noise, one that sounds as though he's trying to will himself not to scream himself hoarse. He turns his angry glare on their two magical guests who don't seem the least put out by the hostility that rolls of the director in waves.

"So how is this going to play out?" Fury asks.

"There will be a Ministry hearing. The process is fairly expeditious but he _will_ have to remain in our custody for the duration," Harry explains. He gives Phil a reassuring look. "Ron and I will be arguing on your behalf. Given current world events and your position, I don't think we'll have much trouble convincing them to drop any charges."

"Thank you," Phil says, rising from his seat.

Harry and Ron rise with him. The Avengers rise. There's an awkward silence hanging in the air.

"If you're taking him anywhere, we're going," Steve declares resolutely. "Or you don't take him at all."

"While I appreciate the sentiment," Phil says slowly, "you can't. You're part of the reason I have to go."

"If there is to be a trial, then it will not be held unless we are in attendance," Thor says, looking about as immovable as a mountain. "As we were directly involved in the situation in question, we have a right to appear as your witnesses. You will face no court if it means doing so without our support."

Phil opens his mouth to speak, but instead closes it promptly and offers Ron and Harry a helpless look. The two wizards, who have taken everything in stride thus far, continue to take things in stride. Harry turns his attention to Fury.

"They do have a good point. It wouldn't hurt to have them on our side to explain the situation to the Wizengamot," he says.

Fury doesn't look happy about it as he shakes his head. He folds his arms across his chest and looks to the Avengers. "You sure as hell better make sure you bring him back with you."

"He's coming back with us, one way or another," Steve says. "Count on it."

* * *

Steve doesn't want to make this an issue between them, especially not now when they are currently being gawked at as they are lead through the halls of what he's been told is the Ministry of Magic. Because this isn't an issue about them. Not really. But he can't help but feel a little wounded by it all.

"I understand you weren't allowed to talk about it," Steve says quietly. "But why is it that Fury knew about all of this and I didn't?"

Phil lets out a breath through his nose. "Because Fury has to know about it. He's the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. And I would have liked to have told you, Steve, but there isn't exactly a good time to sit someone down and tell them you used to be a wizard."

"No, I don't suppose there is," Steve admits. "I'm not angry, I'm just having a hard time understanding all of this."

"I know," Phil answers, a sliver of guilt in his eyes. "And I promise we'll talk about it when we get home."

"That's all I'm asking for," Steve says. He grabs hold of Phil's hand, noting that despite being in public, the agent makes no move to pull away. If anything, he seems to gravitate closer to the soldier. "We'll get you out of this. If they want to get to you, they're going to have to go through us first."

"I'd prefer it if it didn't have to come to that," Phil says. "Let's just see how this plays out, alright?"

"If you like. But remember…"

"I know; they'll have to go through you. Good opportunity to test if your shield is impervious to magic."

Steve grins at that and although Phil offers one to match, it doesn't stay long. There's something else about all of this that's bothering the agent; something he doesn't want to talk about. Apart from everything that's being revealed, there must still be things that he's uncomfortable with. Steve squeezes his hand, prompting the other man to look up at him.

"Whatever's bothering you, if you need to talk about it, I'm right here," he affirms.

But that only causes Phil to look even more troubled. "Steve, there are certain things that I'll have to tell you that you won't like. Please understand that I never kept them from you with any intention of hurting you but that I understand your right to be upset by them."

"Phil, come on," Steve says with a shake of his head. "Whatever you have to tell me, I'm sure I can handle it."

"Alright," Harry says, stopping them in front of a pair of very large, wooden doors. "This is as far as we go together. Ron will get you seated and Phil's going to come with me. If we need you to give testimony, we'll call on you, but otherwise try to be quiet."

Following at Ron's instruction, Steve watches as Harry leads Phil away from them until they're no longer in sight. As the doors open before them, he can't help but wonder what they've gotten themselves into this time.

* * *

The trial goes better than expected; far better. In an unheard of turn of events, Phil has not only been pardoned for his illegal use of magic, but Harry and Ron managed to talk the Wizengamot actually having his right to practice it reinstated. Well, mostly. He still has to be careful around the general public, but he's been cleared to practice legally when out of the sight of Muggles not comprising of the Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. But given his line of work stacked up against current events, the exception was not as hard to make as it should have been.

"Congratulations," Harry says warmly, shaking Phil's hand.

"I can't thank you enough. Either of you," Phil answers honestly.

"Least we could do," Ron says with a shrug. "I never did understand why you went and left it all. Sure you won't just come back?"

"As tempting as the offer is," Phil says, and Steve can see his glance slide to him and his teammates, however briefly, "I'm right where I need to be."

"Then instead of cluttering the halls," Harry says, "why don't we make a trip to Ollivanders to get you a new wand and you can show the Avengers around Diagon Alley?"

"It's like Christmas," Clint exclaims.

"You're not taking anything home with you," Phil says flatly.

"Phillip, what have you done this time?"

The group turns at large at the sound of an elderly female voice. Steve's eyes go wide and round and were he not focused on the newcomer, he would have seen all the color drain from Phil's face.

"Peggy?" he blurts.

"Steve?" the woman counters.

"Mum?" Phil says.

Steve turns on Phil. "…did you…? _Mum_?"

When he had wondered what they'd all gotten into, he realizes he didn't even have the first clue. Looking between Peggy Carter and Phil Coulson, he realizes that this must have been what the agent had warned him about. Perhaps it won't be as easy to take as he'd first assumed.


	26. Do you wanna touch? (JasperPhilSteve)

**A/N:** Explicit stuff ahead. :)

* * *

Steve and Jasper had agreed to wait. They had no intention of spoiling whatever it was that the three of them had going by rushing into the physical aspect of the relationship without everyone being prepared for it. The fact of the matter was, Phil had yet to be cleared by his doctor for this kind of activity. So Steve feigned needing more time before taking that step forward in their relationship, which wasn't really all that hard considering he was a virgin, and Jasper was always quick to play along.

They should have figured that they weren't fooling Phil. When the older agent called them out on it, they simply explained it was because they hadn't wanted him to feel like he was holding the relationship back. They were only too happy to wait for him. They had expected him to understand even if he was a little grumpy about it, but his reaction was nowhere even close.

Apparently Phil had other plans.

* * *

"Now line up, just like that, yes. And press in slowly. Slowly… stop. Give him time to adjust."

Steve trembles as he pauses with the tip of his dick inside Jasper, waiting for the order to proceed. Phil's hand is on the small of his back, warm, steady, reassuring. He can see that this waiting is wrecking Jasper just as much as it's wrecking him and knowing that stirs something in him.

"Go," Phil says. "Go slowly, make sure he's comfortable. Jasper, be sure to tell him if he's hurting you."

Apparently it's all Jasper can do to nod in response, gripping the sheets as Steve enters him torturously slow. It's too slow, and Phil knows it, the bastard.

"Phil, don't be a sadist," Jasper gasps.

Steve hears Phil's soft chuckle.

"Steve, push in all the way."

He hesitates, afraid of really hurting Jasper, but then Phil's hand is pushing on his lower back, encouraging him. So he takes a deep breath and does as Phil says.

"_Jesus, God, fuck, yes_."

Amidst Jasper's fervent swearing, Steve moans, long and loud and undone. He stays where he is, pressed in as deep as he can go, focusing on the tight heat surrounding him.

"Does he feel good?" Phil asks, his lips pressed to Steve's ear. "I bet he does. He's probably tight as anything, aren't you, Jasper?"

Steve shivers, biting his lower lip as the words go straight to his cock and the muscles around him twitch. He doesn't have to look at Jasper's face to know they're both getting off on this, on having Agent Coulson in control. Steve's not sure he'll ever be able to listen to Phil over the coms again. He feels Phil's hands on his hips, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles.

"Now, roll your hips. Yes, just like that. Nice and slow, take your time," Phil instructs encouragingly. "All right, now rock back and forward. Back and forward, drawing out a little more each time. Good. Good, you're doing so well. Isn't he doing well, Jasper?"

"God, yeah," Jasper sighs.

Steve can see Jasper wants to say something else, but he holds himself back. And Steve knows why: neither of them are doing anything until Phil tells them.

"Do you want him to go faster?" Phil asks with a knowing smile.

"Please," Jasper says, determined not to whine.

"Fuck him harder," Phil says, his voice in Steve's ear again.

With a groan, Steve obeys, letting his body take over, giving into instinct. He thrusts with wild abandon, his hips snapping roughly and harder still with each new moan and string of profanity he forces out of Jasper. He's panting, getting lost in the unfamiliar sensation of being inside another human being, when he feels Phil guide his hand away from Jasper's hip and across his abdomen until his fingers brush the blunt head of the agent's cock.

"I want you to touch him, Steve," Phil says.

Steve obeys without any further prompting, wrapping his hand around Jasper's hitherto neglected dick, smearing the copious amounts of precome from the tip as he thumbs the head. Jasper groans, clenching around him as he proceeds to stroke him carefully.

"Stop."

Phil's hands are on his waist, and his hips come to a stuttering halt as he stops stroking.

"Pull out," Phil says.

Steve does so, much to Jasper's displeasure.

"Phil, come on," Jasper moans. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"I know very well that you have better control than that, Jasper. Be patient and no whining," Phil says. "Or would you rather I let Steve come already?"

Steve realizes he was right at the edge without even having noticed. He might have felt embarrassed if not for the fact that Phil's hands are running up his back, massaging his shoulders.

"Deep breaths, in and out," Phil says. "Keep stroking him, but don't enter him again. Not just yet. Keep breathing, focus on my voice."

Steve does as he's told, feeling himself gradually draw back from the edge with Phil's coaching. Jasper is carefully maintaining control, refusing to squirm beneath him. Phil moves from his side momentarily, crouching beside the younger agent. His hand joins Steve's, working Jasper's cock in a practiced, almost familiar fashion. Steve can't hear what Phil whispers, he just knows that it gets Jasper gasping and bucking upwards into their hands, before Phil settles back with a satisfied glimmer in his eyes.

"Go on, Steve," Phil says.

Steve doesn't need to be told twice, thrusting back inside Jasper with one, smooth motion. The agent gasps again, writhing against him as Steve picks up his prior pace, pounding into him enthusiastically. Jasper's so receptive, so responsive, taking everything Steve's giving him and only wanting more of it, that Steve can hardly stand it.

"I don't know… how much longer I…" Steve pants, not sure he can stop now if Phil asks again.

"Don't worry. You're doing fine," Phil assures him, his hand covering Steve's. "Twist your wrist on the upward stroke, like this."

Jasper cries out at that, his hips bucking upward, the muscles around Steve's cock twitching erratically.

"You'll get him there, just hold back a little longer," Phil says. "You're almost there. You're both almost there."

"Phil… I can't…" Steve gasps, feeling himself teetering on the edge.

"Come for him, Jasper," Phil says.

"Christ, _Steve_…!"

There's a warm wetness spilling over his fist as the muscles around him clench so tight, so tight, so hot and tight and he can't…

"Do it. I want you to come in him, Steve," Phil says in his ear, calm and steady as always.

And he's done in. With a howl, he comes, spilling himself inside Jasper, his hips thrusting jerkily until eventually they're both spent and sticky and satiated. Steve slumps forward, kissing Jasper slow and wet, feeling Phil's hand gently trace his spine. The high begins to wear off and under Phil's instruction, he pulls out slowly, earning a satisfied groan from Jasper, before he rolls to the side. Phil is watching them both with open affection. He runs a hand between Jasper's thighs, his fingertips coming back sticky with Steve's come. With a hum, he drags his fingertips through the semen on the younger agent's stomach.

"That's a good look for you, Jasper," he says smugly.

To Steve's surprise, Jasper flushes slightly, covering his face with one hand. Jasper is the smart aleck of their trio, always ready with a snappy comeback or a clever jibe. It's rare to see him caught off guard like this and Steve finds he rather likes it.

"You're an ass," he says.

"And you love it," Phil says.

"That we do," Steve says, leaning across Jasper to kiss Phil soundly.

He's a little perplexed when Phil jumps suddenly, groaning into his mouth. Breaking away for a brief moment, he looks down and sees why. Jasper's made quick work of his partner's fly, pulling out his hardened member and stroking it firmly.

"Jasper," Phil says warningly.

"Your physician said no sex, he said nothing about a blowjob," Jasper responds, pressing him gently back until he's propped against the pillows. "I don't know about Steve, but I have no intention of leaving you with blue balls."

Phil looks hesitant until Steve's kissing him and Jasper's nipping at his neck, tugging the collar of his shirt down to get access to his collarbone. Steve draws back, pressing one last kiss to Phil's lips and one to his temple.

"Let us take care of you," he says.

Phil draws a shaky breath, but nods. Steve can't decide what's more appealing: the look on Phil's face or the sight of Jasper's lips wrapped around his cock. He picks up where Jasper had left off, kissing and sucking along Phil's jawline, his hand sliding up under the agent's shirt, running his fingers along his stomach and up further through sparse chest hair and over peaked nipples. He purposely avoids the scar on the left side of Phil's chest, knowing the area is still healing and still tender in more ways than one.

Phil doesn't last long, his cry of completion lost in Steve's mouth as the soldier steals his lips when he comes. He kisses him through the aftershocks, pulling back so the agent can catch his breath. Phil's face is pressed to his shoulder as he pants softly. Jasper joins them a moment later and Steve can't help but reach out to swipe at the come that had dribbled down the younger agent's chin with his thumb.

"I think that's an even better look for you," Steve says with a grin.

Jasper rolls his eyes and bites the tip of Steve's thumb before settling beside them, squeezing Phil's thigh fondly.

"You okay?" he asks.

Phil just nods drowsily, apparently worn out from even that much and still catching his breath. Steve shifts, rolling Phil onto his side and scooting to the edge of the bed.

"Stay here, I'm going to grab something to get us cleaned up," he tells Jasper.

After he's cleaned himself off, he returns with a damp cloth to take care of Jasper. He can't help but stare as he wipes his own come from between the agent's legs, the tips of his ears going pink at the mere thought of how it had gotten there in the first place. He feels the Jasper's fingers in his hair as he finishes, folding the cloth neatly and setting it aside. Jasper nods towards Phil, who is still lying on his side.

"Help me get him undressed," he says.

Steve quirks an eyebrow at that until he gets a good look at Phil.

"He's asleep," Steve exclaims in amazement.

"Yeah, he was out like a light before you even made the bathroom," Jasper says, gently rolling the slumbering agent onto his back.

Steve frowns as pulls Phil's unclasped belt out of the loops. "Do you think that maybe we shouldn't have done that?"

"He'll be fine. It got him to sleep," Jasper says.

"Wait, wait," Steve says, not pausing as he tugs Phil's pants off. "Are you saying you did… _that_… to get him to sleep?"

"No," Jasper says, unbuttoning Phil's shirt. "Not entirely anyway. I wanted to, I didn't want him to be left out. But yeah, I knew it would get him to sleep."

Steve huffs a laugh as he props the sleeping agent against him so Jasper can slip his shirt off. Eventually they've got Phil down to his t-shirt and boxers, nestled safely between them as they lie in bed. Steve lies on his side, watching Jasper watch Phil.

"He's really out of it, huh?" Steve murmurs.

Jasper hums the affirmative.

"You don't like that," Steve gleans.

"I know he needs it and it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative. I'm just not used to it. It's not like him," Jasper says. "He's a light sleeper. The first time I ever saw him sleeping was in a hotel during a mission in Vancouver. He decided to take the chair by the door for the night, so I was going to try to take his tie off. You know, make him more comfortable? I got within a foot of him and he nearly broke my wrist."

"You talk about it like it was love at first sight," Steve says with a grin.

"There's nothing sexier than a man who could kill you in his sleep," Jasper agrees with a smirk.

It's strange how the good humor is suddenly wiped off the agent's face. He's grown too used to Jasper's easy smile and playful personality; watching the moment rob him of that feels out of place. Phil and Jasper had been together before Steve had come along and it's times like this that he's reminded of that fact. Phil's death had hurt him greatly, but it had wrecked Jasper.

"Don't get me wrong, it's good to see him sleep like this for once in his life, but it's unsettling. Because it's not him. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"I think I understand," Steve says. He feels Phil's chest rise and fall beneath his hand, feels his heartbeat against his palm. "I keep telling him he's pushing himself too hard."

"He wouldn't be Phil Coulson if he didn't," Jasper responds with a heavy sigh.

"I suppose he wouldn't," Steve agrees. "I want to talk to him about it tomorrow, after his doctor's appointment. I was thinking if we both brought it up over lunch he might be more apt to listen."

"We can try it," Jasper answers.

They lapse into silence, Steve's hand nudging Jasper's from where they lie on Phil's chest until their fingers are interwoven. Part of him still wonders how this all happened, how it became his new 'normal.' The rest of him is telling that part to kindly shut up and not look a gift horse in the mouth. He's happy, Phil and Jasper are happy, there's no need to go questioning it. Looking across Phil, he can see that Jasper's eyes are closed. They should all sleep, really. It's been a very long week.

"Jasper?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you. For tonight. I know I'm not, well… this isn't my area of expertise, so thank you."

Jasper's dark eyes are open now, focused on him. That's something he and Phil share; that quiet intensity, the kind that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room.

"That's not something you ever have to thank me or anyone else for," Jasper says, squeezing his hand tightly. "Remember that."

There's a conviction in that statement that makes Steve curious, makes him wonder why Jasper is so insistent. But instead of dwelling on it he just squeezes back.

"I will," he promises.

That seems good enough for Jasper, who closes his eyes once again, settling back beneath the covers. Steve waits until Jasper's breathing evens out, joining Phil's. He lies awake for a time, just listening, focusing on the both of them beside him before he drifts off, too.


	27. Alarm Clock (Phil-centric)

Most people are under the impression that Phil would sooner bite his own tongue off than take a day off. It's true he loves his job and yes, maybe he devotes a little _too_ much of his life to it, but that's all the more reason to value his downtime. Tonight is the first night in as long as he can remember that he'd returned to his apartment at a reasonable hour and _hadn't_ taken any work home with him.

So he indulges in a long, hot shower before changing into his favorite pair of pajamas. It's an old set of soft, grey plaid that he frequently couples with a navy robe that he can't seem to part with and a pair of slippers of the same color. He settles into his favorite armchair with a cup of tea and a book he'd put down a month ago and hadn't found time to pick up again and finally feels like he's beginning to relax.

An hour into this—after his tea has grown cold and he's read the same paragraph three times and his chin has touched his chest an equal number of times—it becomes apparent that perhaps turning in for the night is the better plan. So he washes out his mug, marks his place in his book and shuffles towards his bedroom.

Sitting on the side of his bed, Phil winds his alarm block with some agitation. Why does it seem like whenever he finally has time to relax, he's too exhausted to actually do it? Well, no matter now. As he places his reading glasses on the night table, he reflects that, at the very least, he has the prospect of a full eight hours of sleep to look forward to.

* * *

It's still dark when he wakes, his mind still fuzzy from sleep but his body tense. He sits up in bed, blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to get a grasp of the situation. The apartment is still and he doesn't hear anything apart from the ticking of his alarm clock, but still he knows something's wrong. He's not sure what, but there is something definitely amiss.

Just as he pulls the covers away and swings his legs over the side of the bed, he finds out just what. He counts five of them, he thinks, it's really too dark to tell. All he knows is that they're fast, they know what they're doing and he doesn't have much time to react; a hurried, ineffectual struggle finds him on his stomach with a hand over his mouth and his hands pinned behind him.

"Just relax, Agent Coulson," one of them says in his ear. "This will all be over soon."

In the sliver of moonlight that shines through the blinds, he sees the flash of a syringe in the man's hand. He's exhausted, he has work in the morning and damn it all if he can't have _one_ quiet evening at home. They'd gotten the jump on him, he'll give them that much, but that's all they're going to get.

He bucks suddenly and feels the back of his head connect with one of his captor's faces. There's a snarl, the tell-tale crack of a nose being broken and suddenly the hands keeping his pinned are loosened enough for him to reclaim them. They react quickly, but he's quicker; he grabs the wrist of the hand over his mouth. He pivots until he can feel the man's elbow resting against his shoulder and then pulls sharply on his wrist.

The joint gives way easily, and he releases the man's wrist. He hears the body drop to the floor along with loud cries of agony as he reaches for his alarm clock. Just as he rises to get his bearings, he's tackled off his bed and to the floor. His head hits the wall with a sharp crack and stars erupt behind his eyelids. The heavy weight of one of his captors pushes him into the carpet as the man straddles him, wrapping his hands around Phil's throat and squeezing.

The guy has at least fifty pounds and a foot on him and throwing him off isn't easy with his air supply being cut off.

"Get the syringe you imbecile!" the man on top of him shouts.

"Hold him still this time!" another grouses.

But Phil doesn't _want_ to be held still. Still grappling with the man on top of him with one hand, he gropes blindly around him with the other. Just as spots start joining the stars in his vision, his fingers brush against cool metal. Gripping his alarm clock tightly, he swings it in a heavy arc. The glass face shatters against his assailant's temple, but he doesn't let up, just reaches back and swings it again and again and again until the man on top of him is dead weight.

He sucks in a deep lungful of air as he shoves the man off of him, letting his limp body fall to the side. As he gets to his feet, the man with the syringe rushes him, which is really the biggest mistake he could have made. Phil blocks the man's swing with his raised arm and catches the punch he throws with the other; from there a quick sweep takes the man's feet out from underneath him. Thankfully, his alarm clock as retained most of its shape and knocking the man upside the head with it quickly does the trick.

Phil hears a shout as the final intruder comes at him, a knife raised above his head. Hoping that his battered but trusty alarm clock still has one good shot left in it, he hurls it at the man's head and can't help but feel a degree of satisfaction as his intruder's head snaps back and he crumples to the ground.

Panting, a little light headed and sure that he will need to buy a new alarm clock, he surveys the room. Unconscious or otherwise groaning men are lying on his floor and something needs to be done about that. With a put upon sigh, he walks around his bed, steps into his slippers and dons his robe once again. So much for a full eight hours.

* * *

Phil has just finished tying up the last of his would-be assailants when his bad night gets worse. There comes the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood and then quite suddenly he has three Avengers in his living room, all shouting his name.

"I'm right _here_, for God's sake," he snaps.

Steve, Clint and Tony freeze, all suited up and all looking very, very confused. Phil reaches beneath his glasses and rubs his tired eyes with a slow sigh. His door is destroyed and from the sound of it, at least one window is going to need replacing.

"Hey, nice pajamas," Tony says.

"What are you doing in my apartment?" Phil grumbles.

"We, uh…" Steve begins. He makes a vague hand gesture towards the men lying bound at Phil's feet. "Well, the alarm system that Tony installed here went off and we figured it was something to do with those Hydra operatives we'd been tracking. So we came to check on you."

"You came to check on me. Fully suited up. You broke down my door and one of my windows—"

"Two of your windows," Clint interrupts.

"…two of my windows, to _check on me_," Phil says coolly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his robe. He stares the three of them down, but his gaze lands on Tony. "You installed an alarm system in my apartment without my consent _or_ my knowledge?"

"Yeah, well… you know," Tony says from within the Iron Man suit. "Just in case? Hey, I was worried. Isn't that a good thing? Thinking about other people? Huh?"

"No," Phil says bluntly. "Now please get out."

"But—" Tony starts.

"And makes yourselves useful by dropping these five off at HQ," Phil adds.

"Look, Phil, we came as quickly as we could, but you don't need to get so—"

"Stark? Shut your goddamn mouth. One night, that's all I was asking. One night without all of _this_ and all of _you_ where I could have just a little bit of privacy and a full eight hours of sleep," Phil says. "I don't need you to come to the rescue, I need you to get out so I can get some sleep."

"I told you he's grumpy when you wake him up," Clint says to the other two.

"_Barton_," Phil growls.

"Okay," Steve says, holding up his hands peaceably. "You want to go back to sleep and we're going to let you. But one of us is staying here; there's no telling if these five are the end of it and I'm not willing to leave you here unguarded. Deal?"

Phil sighs wearily. If it were any other time—or, let's be honest, any other person—he would fight tooth and nail until he was alone. But right now, he just desperately wants to go back to sleep. He can barely keep his eyes open as it is.

"Fine. Do what you want. I'm going back to bed," he declares.

When he walks back out of his bedroom under a minute later, pillow tucked under one arm and a blanket dragging along as he clutches it by its corner, the three Avengers are standing in the middle of his living room in much the same position as he'd left them. He shuffles over to his sofa, tosses the pillow down and sits heavily. He drops his face into his hands.

"There's broken glass and blood in my bed," Phil mumbles. "And a tear in the mattress."

Across the room, his alarm clock goes off, ringing weakly, and one of his captives groans. He resists the urge to scream.

"I'll just call Fury and tell him you're not coming in today," Steve says, managing to sound at least slightly apologetic.

"Please," Phil answers drowsily, already falling asleep where he sits.

There is a great deal of shuffling and quiet talking and then the lights are being doused and someone is pulling his glasses off his face and pushing him to lie down. He hugs his pillow close, mumbling something that might be thanks when the blanket is pulled over him and a hand pats his shoulder.

"G'night, boss," Clint says.

"G'night, Barton," Phil mumbles.

And damn it all if it isn't the best sleep he's had in months.


	28. Unwell (Phil & Clint)

**Trigger Warnings:** suicidal behavior, suicide attempt, mental health issues

* * *

Clint bites on his thumb as he stares through the glass of the observation window. He's fairly certain he's going to crack the nail if he bites any harder, but he'd been grinding his teeth so hard before that it's a wonder he didn't chip any of them, so he supposes this is a better alternative. He can't tell if he should go in or not, if he should continue to linger in the hall, watching from a distance like he always does.

In the end, he goes in. Because he needs to know why.

"They think I'm suicidal."

The words give him pause. Phil's face is turned away from him and though Clint had known he wasn't sleeping, he was sure that his handler wouldn't have known it was him entering. With a slow, deep breath he closes the door behind him and walks towards the bed.

"Can you blame them?" Clint asks.

His eyes are drawn to the thick, white gauze wrapped around the older man's wrists and he finds he can't look away until he feels Phil's gaze on him. Clint's eyes quickly dart up to meet Phil's. He's not sure what he sees there or what he expected to, but whatever it is puts a strange, squirming sense of guilt in his gut at having been caught looking.

"I'm not," Phil assures him.

Clint chooses not to say anything, but merely ducks his head in a nod of recognition.

"You don't believe me," Phil deduces.

"I don't know," Clint admits. The trust between them is something that has taken many years to achieve. Where in the beginning Clint wouldn't have trusted Phil to tell him the time of day, now he trusts the man with his life. Right this very second, however, he's not sure what to believe. He slowly sinks into the chair beside the bed, the exhaustion that follows adrenaline and fear and worry hitting him hard. "You said you were looking for something. What did you mean?"

Phil looks straight at him—straight through him, it feels like—but doesn't answer right away. He looks tired. As tired as Clint feels. More so, probably. He's still Phil Coulson, but he doesn't look like the same man Clint remembers. His gaze is hollow, haunted. Beneath the glazed look the heavy medication lends to them, there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before. Or maybe something's missing. Maybe both. Loki may not have taken his life as they'd originally been lead to believe, but he can't help but feel the God of Mischief managed to take something else.

Maybe it's the same thing he'd taken from Clint.

"It made more sense at the time," Phil says, blinking slowly.

Phil had been doing well. As well as could be expected after narrowly surviving his encounter with Loki. Clint had been doing better, watching his handler recover. It helped to plug up the parts of him which felt empty; busying himself by focusing on Phil's recovery allowed him to avoid his own issues. Not that Phil hadn't nagged him endlessly about his therapy sessions regardless.

So when JARVIS had woken the entire Tower several hours ago with "an emergency on Agent Coulson's level" they'd all gone running. Clint's not sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't seeing Phil sitting on his bathroom floor with his wrists sliced to hell and blood pooling beneath him. He's still not sure who had reacted or moved first, but he distinctly remembers Bruce ordering them to grab towels. He remembers crouching across from Steve as they pressed them to Phil's wrists and wondering if his face looked as horrified as Steve's did. He remembers hearing Pepper calling for an ambulance.

But what he remembers most was that Phil had looked at him. He wasn't wholly conscious, but he had looked at Clint as though he might have understood it all and had said, "I didn't find anything. I think I'm real." And over the next few hours, Clint had puzzled endlessly over what that meant and why Phil had looked at him that way. Him and only him.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. developed a series of Life Model Decoys. There's one of me. At least one," Phil tells him. He pauses, frowning at the space just above Clint's left shoulder. "I woke up and I thought… I wondered if…"

His frown deepens.

"I didn't know if I was me… or if I was an LMD. I've been told so frequently that it's nothing short of a miracle that I lived and I wondered if maybe I hadn't," Phil says slowly. "So I had to… check. I had to see for myself that I was real."

"Phil," Clint says gently, "you almost killed yourself."

"I know," Phil answers. His eyes are wide with something like shock, it seems. "It wasn't my intention. It hadn't even occurred to me that it was a possible outcome. Everything in that moment just made so much sense, but now…"

"Not so much," Clint finishes.

Phil closes his eyes with a heavy sigh and he looks so very, very tired. "I don't know what I was thinking."

That's what scares him. It's what scares both of them. Even now, doped up to his eyeballs on medication, Phil seems to have a clearer head than he did when he'd decided to dig into his wrists with a razor in search of wires or computer chips or whatever it was he'd been thinking he might find. It scares Clint because the man he remembers doesn't suffer from egregious lapses in judgment that result in emergency surgery and blood transfusions and a mandatory forty-eight hour hold for psychological evaluation.

"You looked at me like I understood," Clint says, breaking the silence.

"Do you?" Phil asks him.

"Maybe," Clint says. He shakes his head, drags his fingers across his scalp. "It's just… he took me out, stuffed something else inside. And then that got taken out and I got stuffed back inside. But it feels like… like…"

"Like something got left behind," Phil murmurs.

"Fuck," Clint says quietly, dropping his face into his hands.

"You know, they think I'm having a mental breakdown," Phil says, his tone almost conversational. "I don't know about that. Maybe it's true."

He stares at the ceiling. Clint lifts his head and stares at Phil.

"I'm not crazy," Phil insists softly. His fingers twitch against the bed sheets. "But I think… I don't think I'm okay. And I'm not sure what to do about it."

Clint swallows thickly, the admission causing his chest to constrict painfully. Phil is supposed to be the stable one. Even at his worst, Clint has never seen him like this. Phil is always solid, consistent. It's not supposed to be like this. He's not supposed to break this way. It's all wrong.

"We'll find a way to fix it," Clint says, clearing his throat.

Phil looks at him then like he wants to believe that.

Clint wants to believe it, too.


	29. Silk (Capsicoul)

Trying to think of a way to explain to your boyfriend of some months that you sometimes like to dress up in women's clothing is difficult. More so when dressing up in women's clothing not only arouses you, but that you've jerked off more times than you can count to the mental image of being fucked while wearing women's clothing. More so when you're a national icon. It's not as though Steve could hide it forever, or that he'd even planned to, but he really hadn't counted on Phil finding out as quickly as he did. But then, trying to keep secrets from a secret agent doesn't tend to work in anyone's favor, so he supposes it's hardly surprising.

But rather than being shocked or horrified or disgusted by the notion, Phil seems all for it. If anything, Phil seems as excited by the idea as Steve is.

"I'd imagine that it's difficult to find something that fits you just right," Phil says.

Steve snorts. "You can say that again. It was easier before the serum, but now… well, I think you can see for yourself. I'm an ox."

"You're anything but," Phil tuts. He looks contemplatively at Steve for a moment before speaking again. "I don't suppose you've ever thought of having something custom tailored?"

Steve shakes his head, cheeks a healthy pink at the mere thought. "Too embarrassed."

Phil hums in a manner that Steve can only describe as thoughtful before tilting his head a fraction to the left. The action is so indescribably Phil that Steve has to fight hard to keep from smiling.

"What if I did it for you?" the agent asks.

"You?" Steve asks, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

"You may remember from the time I stuck my foot in my mouth when we first met that I mentioned how I'd had some design input on your uniform," Phil explains. He drums his fingers on his kneecaps as they sit side-by-side on the bed. "I may have downplayed my involvement."

"Downplayed by how much?"

"I may have designed the entire uniform."

"That's… Well, okay then."

Which is how they go from merely talking about this particular situation to actually making this particular situation happen. Steve can still hardly believe it as he stands in their shared bedroom, letting Phil take his measurements. He has the sneaking suspicion that Phil already knows his measurements—after all, he'd have needed them to design his uniform—but he's not about to point that out. Not when Phil is all steady hands and soft touches as he wields the cloth tape measure with the same natural ease as he does a firearm or, barring that, a bag of flour.

Just the measurements take over three days to finish because they have to keep stopping when either or both of them get a little too excited by their activity. Not that Steve minds. Although, in hindsight, binding Phil's wrists to the headboard with the tape measure hadn't been the brightest idea, considering it's subsequent destruction of the item set them back another day when the agent had to go out and purchase a new one.

When Phil has finally gotten all of Steve's measurements down, Steve's involvement in the process ends. The agent claims he'd like it to be surprise and while Steve is rather disappointed that he won't be allowed to watch Phil work, the added element of anticipation makes up for it.

It's when he returns from a mission, just a day after Phil had left on a separate assignment, that he finds it. There's a simple, rectangular box on their bed with a note attached to the top.

_Would have preferred to have seen your face when you opened this, but figured I'd made you wait long enough. Try it on and let me know if any adjustments need to be made. Should be back by the 10__th__ if all goes well._

_- Phil_

Steve really has to hand it to Phil; the man doesn't do anything by halves. Looking at himself in the full length mirror, he's impressed. The blue silk dress fits perfectly, as far as he's concerned, hugging all the right places without being too snug. The white silk stockings and garter belts with lacy white panties to match are a detail he hadn't been expecting, but is pleased to see. He bites on his lower lip as he already begins to feel blood rushing south; it would be nice to spend some time with his new outfit, but he doesn't want to make a mess of it before Phil gets home.

So, regrettably, he takes it off, and while it's disappointing that he had to do so in such a short amount of time, he knows that waiting will be well worth it.

* * *

"Oh."

Steve can't help the excited flutter of his stomach as Phil's tired eyes light up at the sight of him. He'd changed into his new dress just a half hour prior, knowing his partner was on his way back to the apartment. Lying on their bed in wait had been equal parts agonizing and exhilarating and entirely worth the riveted look he's getting from Phil.

"So," Steve says slowly, "what do you think?"

"I think," Phil says, moving closer to the bed, "you look stunning."

The agent stops just in front of him, taking in every inch of the blonde's body.

"What do _you_ think?" Phil asks.

"I think you've got a real talent for this," Steve says with a chuckle. "It's perfect."

"Almost perfect," Phil says.

"What makes you say that?" Steve asks.

Phil shifts his stance from one foot to the other. "Well, before we left, we had a few hours to kill and while we were looking for someplace to eat this happened to catch my eye. You can be honest and tell me if it's too much, I just thought…"

From there Phil takes a small box out of his pocket and hands it to Steve. Curious as to why now the agent would appear uncomfortable, he opens the box he'd received. Within it there's a simple silver chain with a small silver star charm dangling from it. He looks up to Phil with a smile.

"Help me put it on?"

Phil's smile eases into something more relaxed at the suggestion. He's quick to comply, leaning forward and reaching around Steve's neck to clasp the ends of the necklace together. Steve allows himself a moment to admire the way the tiny charm rests against his sternum before he's reaching for Phil, trying to pull him in closer.

"Thank you," he says, his arms around the agent's waist. "For all of it."

"Steve, there's nothing you have to thank me for," Phil says, his tone letting the soldier know that he knows just exactly what Steve means.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Steve tilts his head back and lets Phil kiss him. As he pushes the other man's suit coat off of his shoulders, Phil helps him out by shrugging the rest of the way out of it, letting the garment fall to the floor. His tie soon joins it, followed by his shirt, his undershirt, his pants, his underwear and soon Steve gets what he wants and Phil is standing naked before him.

By this time, he can feel his cock straining against his panties, creating a noticeable bulge in the fabric of his dress. He swallows thickly as Phil kneels between his legs and slides his hands up Steve's thighs. Steve's hips lift off the mattress, following the motion, wanting more but curious as to how Phil's going to proceed. He shivers at the slide of silk against his skin as the agent pushes the hem of his dress up just far enough so that he can mouth at Steve through his undergarments.

"Fuck, Phil, please," Steve nearly whines, his hips twitching in his effort to remain still.

But Phil doesn't let up, if anything he just tries harder. With the agent's hot, wet mouth steadily sucking at him through the lace fabric and his hand teasingly fondling Steve's balls, it doesn't take him long to come, keyed up as he is already. He groans, watching a damp spot turn blue silk a much darker shade, as he slowly comes down from his high. It's only a fraction of the relief he'd been seeking, however, and he fumbles for the lube he'd set on the nightstand before pressing it into Phil's hand.

There's no need for words or instruction as Steve moves back onto the bed, kneeling with his rear in the air and a pillow clutched to his chest. He feels Phil settle behind him before the agent runs his hands up the sides of Steve's thighs, gently nudging the fabric up and up until he has enough room to work with.

"I meant it when I said you looked stunning," Phil says. His grip on Steve's hips is firm, possessive. "You're gorgeous."

Steve feels his panties being slipped down, though not off, just enough to expose his ass. He groans loudly as Phil wastes no time at all in sliding the first, slick digit inside him. Phil always takes his time prepping Steve, and though he's doing so now, Steve notes there's a more hurried, desperate air to his movements. Familiar, practiced thrusts and curls of the agent's fingers soon have Steve rocking his hips, clutching at the pillows as his cock fills out again.

"Enough, enough, I'm ready," Steve says quickly.

Phil's fingers leave him and he hears a breathy chuckle from behind as Phil says, "I can't tell if you're more eager for this or if I am."

Soon enough, the room is filled with the sound of the slap of skin on skin and panting and barely restrained whines and moans and Steve can kind of see what Phil means. This is different from the soft, tender touches earlier in the evening; Phil's hands move roughly across his body, tracing every harsh angle through the silk of his dress. He keens as he feels Phil grip him through the bunched up fabric and jerk him in time with his thrusts, leaving Steve trying to push back onto him and forward into his fist at the same time.

The sensation is incredible, better than he'd ever dreamed it would be. He knows Phil's getting close when his pace picks up, losing some of his rhythm in the process. The agent groans, kissing his back, groping with his free hand along Steve's chest, his fingers running over peaked nipples and tweaking them until Steve has to bite down onto his pillow to smother his whimpers.

"Not gonna last much longer," Phil pants. "Do you want my load?"

"You know that I do," Steve moans, knowing that Phil had only asked because he knows Steve likes to hear it. He's not far off himself and the words only help push him closer to release. "Do it, please. Show me how much you like it, Phil."

Apparently Phil likes this arrangement rather a lot more than Steve had ever thought, because a few ragged thrusts later he's coming with a loud cry, his cock pulsing inside Steve and his fist pumping unevenly until Steve topples over the edge along with him. Steve shudders in satisfaction, panting openmouthed as Phil thrusts jerkily, grunting as he fills him until they're both sticky and spent.

Phil slides Steve's panties back up after he pulls out and tugs the hem of his dress back down over his rear. Steve allows himself to lie flat now, letting Phil stroke his spine as he hums drowsily, elated at the sensation of feeling so thoroughly debauched. Although, in some ways, it's a pity that they'd made such a mess of his outfit after Phil had spent all that time working on it. Phil doesn't seem too bothered, though.

"You're really okay with this, aren't you?" Steve says, turning his head to look at his partner.

"Of course," Phil says, as though the question were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He bends forward, kissing between the soldier's shoulder blades. "Whether it's you now, or if it were you before the serum, I think you're just as beautiful either way. And you deserve to be treated that way. So if you have anything else you want to try… don't be afraid to ask me."

Steve props himself up on an elbow at that, dragging the agent down for a kiss.

"It looks like we made a bit of a mess, though," Steve says once they part. "And after all that work…"

Phil shrugs. "It'll wash. Besides, it'll give me an excuse to try out some different cuts and patterns on you."

"You know, I'm starting to wonder if this is more of a turn on for you than it is for me," Steve says with a slow grin.

"You never asked," Phil says simply.

He hadn't. He'd assumed Phil wouldn't be into this kind of thing. But apparently Phil is _very_ into this kind of thing. Surprising? Yes. But will you catch him complaining? No. Not one bit. Although, since he's revealed one of his own kinks, which Phil clearly approves of, he has to wonder just what sorts of kinks the agent has himself.

"Well," Phil says , rubbing the back of his neck, "you know that my office isn't soundproof…"

Oh.

He likes where this is going.


	30. Security Breach (JARVIS & Phil)

Phil pulls his cell phone from his pocket, deciding that a little forewarning may be in order. Not that he expects Tony to be particularly agreeable either way, but considering the subject patter of the dossier currently sitting in his lap, he feels it's for the best. The phone only rings once before he's greeted by a smooth, familiar voice with a notable British accent.

_"Good evening Agent Coulson."_

"Hello, JARVIS," Phil answers. "Good evening to you as well. Could you please tell Mr. Stark that I'm calling?"

_"Of course. One moment, please; he's only just landed."_

Phil waits silently as he's put on hold, listening to the soft jazz selection played in place of JARVIS' voice. It was amusing how the AI always seemed to play jazz or big band or several other styles of music that Phil enjoyed whenever he was on hold, and oftentimes he wondered if it was what JARVIS always played or if the AI picked it out in particular.

_"Sir has requested that I inform you that he is 'out' at the moment,"_ JARVIS says, his voice cutting into the music.

"Why am I not surprised?" Phil says, crossing one leg over the other. "Would you mind telling him that I'm insisting he answer the phone?"

_"Not at all. If you'll pardon me for another moment…"_

They pull up outside Stark Tower while Phil is still on hold and he exits the car, dossier tucker under his arm and his phone pressed to his ear. He reaches the front door by the time the AI addresses him again.

_"I do apologize. Sir is being very difficult tonight."_

Phil wonders if it's possible for an AI to feel miffed, because JARVIS does a very good job of sounding like it. And it's not the first time.

"I wouldn't expect him to be anything else," he says into the receiver. "But seeing where we are, I was wondering if you might do me a favor."

_"Yes, Agent Coulson?"_ is the reply.

"I believe we both know that I _could_ hack my way past Mr. Stark's security protocols, but I would prefer not to touch your mainframe if I don't have to," Phil says. "Would you mind letting me in?"

_"With pleasure. Thank you for your consideration."_

"What's a little consideration between friends?" Phil says, a small smile playing across his features as the door unlocks for him.

_"I quite agree. If you'll just step into the lift, I'll take you to the penthouse level."_

"Thank you, JARVIS," Phil says, stepping inside the building and making his way to the lift.

_"As always, Agent Coulson, you are most welcome. If you will give me another ten seconds, I can connect you to Mr. Stark's mobile phone."_

"Much appreciated."

Phil has to hold back a chuckle as he hears JARVIS inform Tony that his protocols are being overridden while managing to sound very sorry about it. Sometimes it pays to make friends in the right places.

* * *

"You didn't override JARVIS' security protocols, did you?" Pepper asks once they're in the car.

"Looks like you figured me out," Phil says with a smile, settling back in his seat.

"You say that like it was hard to do," Pepper responds with a laugh.

"Why do you say that?" Phil asks.

"Oh, come on, Phil," Pepper says, rolling her eyes. "We both know you've got a soft spot for JARVIS."

He squirms when she prods him in the belly.

"Under all those layers of tough, secret agent you're just a ball of fluff," she says with a knowing smirk. "I've seen you with Dummy before, remember. Besides, I think JARVIS may have a little crush on you."

Phil quirks an eyebrow at that. "Is that even possible?"

"Considering Tony made him, I wouldn't say it's _im_possible," Pepper says.

Phil nods in agreement. "If that's the case… maybe I should have bought him dinner before I went through his mainframe."

Not for the first time in his life, Phil is glad that the glass partition between the front and back seat is tinted and mostly soundproof because the comments that come after that and the laughter that follows aren't even remotely professional or dignified.


End file.
